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The night air was still and quiet around him from where he sat alone on the small staircase of his apartment building, the silence interrupted only by the rhythmic scratching of his pen as he scribbled words and drawings into the pages of his sketchbook. One by one his neighbors were heading to sleep, the lights flicking off in each of the windows stretched out above him. It should have been some indicator for him of his own need to rest, but he was far too engrossed in the black inked lines his hands were currently creating.
Besides, he liked the nighttime. It was peaceful. It was a time when it was so much less likely for anyone to interrupt and bother him…
Absorbed as he was in his sketchbook, he didn’t notice Orange approaching until the other was right behind him, a startled yelp cracking in his throat when he leaned down to touch his shoulder.
“Sh—sh—sh—shi—[SHE SELLS SEA SHELLS], man!!” he stammered, his white feathers puffed all the way out in surprise. Orange tilted his head, chuckling softly while the smaller of the two grumbled and started trying to smooth back down his plumes. “What’re…what’re…what…wh-what’re you even doin’ out here this late??”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Orange replied, taking a seat next to him on the stoop. He scrambled to quickly close his sketchbook, holding it to his chest and turning away as he muttered back.
“Just…just havin’ a little [Feel The Breeze!]. Who cares?”
Orange hummed. “Suppose I do, or I wouldn’t have asked.” He propped an elbow against his knee, casually letting his head lean into his hand as he watched the other fidget around anxiously. “…is everything okay, White?”
He almost seemed to flinch, and Orange frowned. “Y-y-y-y-yeah! Yeah!!! Why wouldn’t it be???”
“You’ve seemed really distracted lately. Maybe even a little…” Orange reached his free hand over, gently poking him in the side to prove his point when the other once again yelped and flinched. “…jumpy.”
He batted Orange’s hand away, glaring back at the soft smile he was giving him. “Whatever—I’m [EVERYTHING’S FINE], alright??? Don’t—don’t—don’t even [Break a Sweat!].”
Another hum. “I rarely do.” And yet Orange was still looking him over, as though his eyes alone could detect the source of all this newfound anxiety. The little guy had always been rather high-strung, certainly the most out of any of their group, but something in particular lately seemed to be weighing on him. And Orange wasn’t one to let a thread go once he started pulling.
“…is it Pink? Was he picking on you again?” He blinked and turned to look up at Orange with a skeptical expression. “You can tell me if he was, you know. I could talk to him for you—“
A loud noise like a computer generated error message passed from his lips, abruptly cutting him off. “No! No, that’s not [Invalid Entry, Please Try Again].” And then he scoffed, throwing Orange a weary look. “A-a-and you know, [Cheeto Puffs], it d-doesn’t always [F1 FOR HELP] as much as you [thinking…] when you m-make me out like I’m a—like I’m a narc.”
“Hm. Noted.” Silence fell between them for a bit then, Orange still watching him and him still stubbornly looking away. “…you know I’m not going anywhere until you tell me, right?”
He grumbled. “…yeah, I know.”
“Come on, White. Just tell me.”
His shoulders shrugged up like he wanted to hide, his body language closed off and trying to make himself as small as possible. A few long moments passed, and then finally he spoke.
“What if…” He swallowed hard, a vulnerable sort of nervousness behind his voice that Orange had never heard before. “…what if I…wh…what if I…didn’t want to be called ‘White’ anymore…?”
Orange tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“I-I mean…w-w-well—“ He was clearly trying his best to look Orange in the eye but failing, his pupils darting around anxiously instead. “Well—y-y-you know how we—how we—how we all sometimes—w-we sometimes c-call each other n…n…nicknames? Like…like [Blueberry] or [Goldilocks] or—“
“Or Cheeto Puffs?” Orange offered with a smirk, and he smiled back, finally managing to meet his gaze.
“Y-y-yeah. Like [Cheeto Puffs]. So…what if…w-what if I…”
He looked away again, his fingers drumming anxiously against his leg. Orange sat up straighter, waiting patiently. Whatever this was, it clearly meant a lot to him…he wanted him to know he was listening.
“…what if I wanted…a new nickname? B-but…as my—m-m-my real name.”
Now he looked at him, wide eyed and clearly desperate to see what Orange’s reaction to his words was going to be. But the taller had never been an easy one to read, stoic as he most often was. “Well, what did you have in mind?”
He looked down at his sketchbook, then at Orange, then at the sketchbook, then at Orange…until finally he opened it, flipping to a specific page and then shoving it towards him with his face turned away, apparently too anxious to even watch as he handed it over. Orange took it, seeing that the page had been filled with what he could only assume were countless attempts at coming up with this new “nickname”. Most of them had been scribbled over or scratched out, with only just enough of the letters still readable to see that they had all once been some variation or another on the key word ‘spam’. Until the last part of the page, where the same name had been written many times in all different fonts and colors. It had been stylized, underlined, italicized, boldened, decorated…it looked as though he had been trying it on in dozens of different ways for quite a long time now, seeing how it looked and deciding how it felt.
“…Spamton, huh?”
A few seconds passed, and then Orange heard him start laughing loudly. Anxiously. Apparently unable to stomach the quiet tension for even a moment longer and needing to fill the empty space with humor to deflect from the sincerity, as he so often did whenever he felt vulnerable.
“Hahaha!!! It’s—it’s—it’s stupid, right??? Stupid!!! Stupid stupid stupid—“ He started to reach out to take his sketchbook back, gritting his teeth harshly through a forced smile. His jaw was visibly trembling from the effort. “Just—just kidding!!! I was just messin’ with ya! Hahahah!!! Just a—just a—just a—just a stupid joke! Haha! I totally—totally—totally— [TOTALLY LEGIT OFFER CLICK NOW TO !] got you, Orange!!! Hah! Sh—sh—shoulda seen th—the [LOOK INSIDE] on your face! Ha! Hahaha!!!
…H-here, let me—let me—let me just take that back, and—and don’t tell the others, okay??? It was just a—just a dumb joke—”
But Orange leaned back, holding up a hand to keep him from snatching away the sketchbook and to also signal for him to stop. He froze, his pained smile wavering for a moment before it dissolved into a grimace, and he slowly withdrew his hands and shrunk away. He wrapped his arms around himself instead—something like a desperate hug—and curled in on himself to make himself small again.
Compared to all of the loud laughter, his voice was very, very quiet when he spoke again. “…s-s-seriously…Orange…d…don’t tell them…It was…it was just a dumb idea…y-you know…? Just…just something dumb…” He closed his eyes, the next word barely audible as it trembled from his chest. “…please…”
Orange frowned, looking between him and the open page of the sketchbook. “…is that what you’re worried about? That they’re going to make fun of you?” The way he squirmed and shrugged and glared down at the ground in embarrassment gave him all the answer he needed. Orange nodded. He understood. Loud and clear.
And then he smiled. “…what if you gave me a new name, too?”
He frowned and blinked a few times in silence, as though he couldn’t believe that he had actually heard that sentence correctly. Then finally he looked back up at Orange, his expression hesitant. “…really?”
“Yeah.” He blinked at him again, his eyes starting to widen. “If we both had new names, no one would dare to tease *me* about it, would they? You know Pink especially would be way too scared to even try.” Orange smirked, a glint of mischief flashing in his eyes. “You all seem to be weirdly intimidated by me, after all.”
He chuckled. “You…you do have this, uh…m-mysterious villain s-sorta vibe about you sometimes…”
“Heh…mysterious…” Orange chuckled, and though the other was clearly still tense, the gentle humor seemed to get through to him. His previous panic was being replaced with relief that Orange had not laughed at him or shut him down, and after a few long moments he spoke up again, an anxious but timidly hopeful tone in his voice.
“You…you’d really do that for me, Orange?”
“Of course I would, Spamton.”
And then his eyes widened, and the happiest most genuine smile Orange had ever seen in his life claimed his friend’s expression.
“O…okay…!” Spamton chirped, his excitement practically buzzing in the air. Orange let him take his sketchbook back this time when he grabbed for it, smiling fondly as he watched him flip to a new page and frantically start drawing.
“W-w-well, when I—when I—when I p-picked mine, I uh…well, there’s a folder, yeah? There’s this folder—it’s where—it’s where the Lightners keep sending me…and, I-I know it’s kind of [Silly Strings], but—it, it kind of feels like…I dunno, I got [Click to view Attachments] about it, ya know??? I started to like how it sounded…”
“You’re talking about the spam folder, right?”
“Right! So…” He was clearly deep in thought now, furrowing his brow and sticking his tongue out as he contemplated the words he was scribbling. “So…m-maybe, maybe I just do the same for you. You know??? Just something…something that sounds right…”
Orange leaned back, resting his elbows on the stair behind him to relax with a soft smile as he watched Spamton write. He had never seen him get this excited about anything before. It was as though he could actually see the gears as they were turning in his head, mumbling thoughts to himself beneath his breath and scratching his pen furiously across the paper. His feathers were all bristling again, but with positive energy this time instead of fear. It was nice to see him so passionate about something, when so often at work he was only ever left looking tired and dejected…
Orange had been fully prepared to settle in and wait awhile, expecting the brainstorming to take longer, but it wasn’t long at all before Spamton was excitedly tapping him on the leg and urging for him to listen.
“OK! So—” Orange sat up, turning his head a few times and rolling his shoulders to stretch. “So…there’s—there’s this—there’s this—there’s another term I keep—I keep [Run! Run! Run!] into when—when I get sent to spam. And I—I dunno, I just like the sounds—it’s called…it’s something called an auto-filter? It’s like—it’s like—it’s like this…wall, or something! It’s like a wall—it stops my messages—and it sends them to spam? B-b-but that first part….the auto part…I-I dunno, it…I like the sounds…I don’t know how to explain but—“ Spamton offered him the sketchbook back, almost shyly. “…what do you think…?”
Orange took it, humming as he looked the page over. “…do you think I’m like a wall?” he asked, raising a brow and looking over at him. Spamton actually *blushed*, waving his arms frantically in a ‘no’ gesture, apparently worried that he had offended him.
“Not like that! Not like that! Not like that!” Orange smirked, finding the frazzled embarrassment amusing. “…well, I mean…kind of? B-but not in a—not in a—not in a [BAD NEWS!!] way??”
Now genuinely curious, Orange waited for him to continue. “…you’re—you’re tough…you know?? You’re—you’re not…n-not uh, easy to read…” Spamton chuckled nervously. “…like that!! That look you’re giving me, man!! I can’t tell if you’re happy o-or you’re pissed off, haha…” Orange smirked and rolled his eyes, and Spamton continued. “…but, y-you’re also…y-y-you’re steady. You—we—we know you’ll always be there…you know…? So…I guess, kind of like a wall. Yeah. K-kind of.”
Orange hummed in acknowledgment, his expression once again neutral and unreadable as he nodded and looked back at the page. After nearly a full minute he spoke. “…’Auto’ is another word for cars, yeah? Automobile…I don’t really like cars the way you do, Spamton.”
“…oh. W-well, I—“ But he stopped stammering as Orange held up a finger for him to wait, leaning forward and reaching to take the pen from Spamton’s hand and writing something of his own down on the page.
“So, how about we tweak it a little? Same sounds, different spelling…I still feel very attached to the letter ‘O’…it didn’t feel right, seeing a name that didn’t start with it…” And when he was done writing he handed Spamton the sketchbook back. “What do you think?”
Spamton took it, looking down at the name that his friend had offered him. “…Otto.” Then he began to repeat it over and over, raising and lowering his voice and changing around his inflections. He was looking at Orange all the while, testing how this name felt in his head and in his heart. “Otto. Otto! Otto? Otto…”
Finally, he grinned. “…I like it.”
“I like it, too,” Otto replied, and he put his hand on Spamton’s shoulder. “So, we’ll tell everyone about our new names at work tomorrow. And we’ll do it together.” Otto smiled. “Okay?”
He could see the emotion that was swelling in Spamton’s eyes, even more so when he said the word ‘together’. “Oh…okay!” He was smiling so bright, brighter than ever before and practically shaking as he gripped his sketchbook so hard that the tips of his nails tore slightly into the paper. Otto squeezed his shoulder, jostling him a bit with a fond laugh, and Spamton laughed as well.
“…th…thank you. Otto.
Thank you so much.”