Work Text:
The light was burning through his eyelids even when he dared to close his eyes. Unshakable. Punishing for keeping only a semblance of calm. Was the buzzing always this obnoxiously loud? He had to tell a zapper later to order for a replacement. And he had a feeling that if they didn't come soon, he'd jump at the old school bulbs and unscrew them himself.
Spamton massaged his forehead to relieve himself from at least a small portion of the anguish the migraine was giving him.
Unfortunately, if he didn't want to pass out on the spot, he'd have to prevail through this torture for...
He looked again at the papers underneath him, trying to make sense of the words they were saying. His vision blurred after the second line. That's the farthest he'd gotten in the last hour.
... just a while longer.
He propped his head on one of his hands, a long since burnt out cigarette in the other, and began the cycle once again. He forced his eyes to skim through the document while not actually reading a single sentence. The only time he squinted to search on the blurry page was to see where his signage was needed. When the scribble was done... hopefully on the correct place, the paper was slowly moved onto the small pile next to him.
When he was sure the paper wouldn't fall off the table, he turned back to the significantly taller pillar of "important legal contracts" in front of him and began to "read through it" once more.
Legal contract yadda yadda sponsorship blah 3rd slot tuesday 4th slot thursday...
Wasn't there a juice commercial planned for that time as well?
Wow he could really go for a drink. With the headache alcohol was out of the question. Coffee? Solid option, but he had a feeling that chugging even a drop more of the dark bitter liquid will result in the resurface of all that he has and hasn't eaten in the last few days.
Angel, what has he eaten? He could probably count the number of meals he ate in the last week on one hand. The cigarette butt was left in the ashtray as he weakly raised his fingers one by one—
—No, thinking about food will only distract him.
...What was he here for again? Feels like he must've killed a man to earn this.
His vision refocused onto the document equivalent of the tower of babel beneath him.
Right. Not a man, only time.
He did, or rather most of the time did not, remember the amount of times he went out clubbing in the last month. But who could blame him?! He was at his prime and only going up, he wasn't going to spend that time sitting around an office picking up phone call after phone call day and night like a recluse!
Speaking of recluse, he had to let the big TV out of his bubble and live a little. Sure, he didn't get out nearly as much as Spamton because of important dark world ruler and TV studio boss reasons or whatever, but the salesman felt a certain obligation to force the giant hermit to have at least a bit of fun outside of work.
Too bad some of his own "reasons" apparently didn't disappear and instead piled up on the desk in his private dressing room.
He knew damn well Tenna wasn't going to let him live this down were he to reach over the deadline by even a day. And Spamton will first chew up and swallow that cigarette butt before he hears another "I told you so".
And when was the deadline again?
As he made a move to turn towards the calendar, he got a direct hit into his face by his current greatest enemy. Those buzzing, blinding, annoying, antique, fucking studio lights.
He pressed on his temples with both of his hands, for once taking no notice of the ruffled hair on top, in order to stop his head from splintering and shield himself from any more of that beam of burning blaze.
Right, tomorrow, message received.
A more peaceful sliver of light was still coming onto the paper, so he allowed himself to make use of the moment of lucidity to go through another contract.
It seemed to be a collaboration with another one of Cyber City's bars. And the description of the idea for the advertisement painted quite the appealing picture indeed. Spamton could already see himself sitting on one of the raised stools in order to try the product for himself as a "test of guaranteed quality" while in truth simply dining and dashing without actually getting himself banned from an establishment for once. He would never admit it out loud, but he supposed he did like going out with the CRT for more reasons than just having a drinking buddy.
Although seeing Tenna let loose keeps on being quite the sight. That slight tinge of rainbow. Those loopy antennas that never once sync together. A laugh that could be easily distinguished even in a room full of people, shaking his whole being while revealing those glistening fangs. The signs of claws underneath gloved hands that could cover most of Spamton's back if they just trie—
"—Aaagh!"
He almost fell off the chair from how high he jumped at the large hand suddenly placed on his shoulder. But before he could register the touch any further, it was gone.
"Oh I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to surprise you!"
It took a moment for all of Spamton's pixels to settle back down. And only when they finally did he gathered up the courage to turn around at the darkner he knew he'd see. Tenna stood tall, and despite the antennas high in alarm, there was a slight smirk to the frown Spamton knew he was hiding.
"What? Havin' fun?"
Tenna gave in, a wide grin with no sign of harm meant on it plastering onto his screen.
"Oh nono, Spam, I just came here to check up on—"
His boxy head slightly tilted to the side. The middle of the top rim of his screen lowered down, his smile fading into one of disbelief along with it.
"...Spamton, did you drool onto the legal Cyber City sponsorship and collaboration contracts I gave you about a month ago?"
Spamton managed to glance back at the papers just as Tenna spoke out, voice tainted with worry. There were clear droplets slowly seeping into the documents and warping the printed ink right in the place where the addison roughly remembered his head lay mere moments ago. He winced at the thought of having to explain to Tenna just about what was transpiring here before he came along in spite of the ongoing onslaught of brightness and hammers to his head.
"You're going to bed."
That one made sure to wake him up.
"...What?"
Tenna crossed his arms with a look like he was a parent scolding a child.
"You heard me."
Sure he did, but there was nothing to be understood. Especially with that attitude. So Spamton elected a different approach. He leaned back, narrowing his eyes at the darkner before him.
"Why?"
The question visibly brought Tenna aback. He threw his hands back, speechless.
"Wha— Why?" finally, he gestured to the whole of Spamton, "Look at yourself! You can try to hide those eye bags all you want, but no amount of make-up will conceal how dim you've been the last couple of days."
Ok, first of all, rude.
Second...
Spamton didn't glance into the vanity mirror for no longer than needed. He knew what Tenna could see, he's been the one looking at it the whole time, after all. But damn did it hurt his pride to even consider that Tenna knew the whole time.
He wearily turned back. Why was Ant's face so blurry? His head felt like the hammers were now more weighing it down than slamming into it.
He didn't know his eyes closed by themselves again before there was a hand on his cheek, thumb gently massaging his temple while the other fingers combed through his hair. There was a screen right in front of him, searching his face, his lips were taut, though surprisingly, he didn't seem mad in any way, soft as ever. Spamton couldn't help but lean into the touch as far as he could, his eyes closing back on instinct. His pixels puffed up and face warmed.
The TV gave a thoughtful hum before retreating. Spamton wanted to ask what was wrong, but the feeling of being swept into the air took out any leftover words from his mouth. He didn't need to see what was happening. The smell of cologne the shops probably stopped selling by the 80s and the close whirring of machinery right next to his ear told him everything. His pixels bristled at the mere thought of Tenna carrying him through the studio in a bridal carry.
"Did ya really just pick me up?"
Tenna sighed, the motion noticeable deep within his chest along with it: "Spam, we're both tired. You want to fight me on this?"
Spamton could only give back a scowl: "I have legs too, you know."
A small chuckle escaped the CRT: "I do."
Then, he backed up through the door in three swift steps.
A rush of cold wind swept across Spamton's face as soon as they crossed the boundary, rustling through his hair. The room was dark, the only soft light coming from the opened window on the side. It was a pleasant change from the overstimulating room he put himself in.
"But I'm not feeling like walking all the way up here today," Tenna said with a sly grin and delight in his voice, knowing he'd won. He and his goddamn cartoon powers.
Spamton only gave one look back through the door currently leading from Tenna's penthouse suite into his dressing room. Now that the dimness helped him focus, his line of vision wandered toward that table, two piles of papers stacked somewhat neatly on top. The instinct to follow through his work lead him to nearly leaping off from Tenna's arms if he hadn't held him carefully enough.
"Spamton!"
Right, he still had to explain the whole "I went out clubbing and worked for queen and some... others instead of doing my work and now my ass is on a pretty tight deadline" thing. He wanted to find some correct words, to say it, but he didn't have time to find a lot before the door would close, so there might as well not be any.
"Listen, Tens. The contracts. I'll—"
"You seriously think I'm going to let you work on those contracts right now? You're exhausted."
The salesman winced, preparing for the blow: "Well yeah, but the deadline is kinda tomorrow."
"Yes, I have told you—"
There it was.
"I need those by tomorrow. And I've expected you to have gone through them way earlier."
Deep down, Spamton knew this wasn't his fault. It was in fact the benefactor that gave him rough couple weeks he had to sometimes go and drink down. Yet there was still that tinge of guilt tightening his guts.
What brought him out of his thoughts was the big nose nuzzling through his hair, the static working to effectively mess up what little was left of the difficult style it took so long achieve in one swift motion. Spamton would've maybe pointed out the issue any other time, but today he was too tired to make up any kind of retort.
"But I'd much rather have you ready for tomorrow's shoot than see you destroy yourself over a bunch of papers."
Spamton didn't have any energy left to make a coherent response. He knew it wasn't long before he'll doze off for way longer than just the 15 minute naps he'd been surviving on for the last few days.
The soft sheets wrapped around him as he was carefully lowered onto his chosen side of the bed.
There was an almost silent click of the door closing and a heavier weight descended onto the mattress next to him. He stirred, mumbling some sort of complaint, as the metal hand brought him closer to the large darkner. The gentle warmth flinched and turned to escape as soon as it came.
"Oh! Yes, I can... go take the couch if you need more space—"
The addison used what was left of his strength to pull on the TV's oversized tie, not giving him and the tender warmth any option to leave. Somewhere deep down he knew they should probably at least change out of their work clothes, but he was too tired to care. The suits have long been abandoned and the shirts and pants will survive.
"Goodnight, Ant," he grumbled.
The only response was the muffled chuckle of his business partner that never failed to make his heart melt.
Soon, he was wrapped in a cocoon of fluffy sheets and hugged tightly, surrounded by the low hum of machinery and the comfortingly dim glow of the darkner's screen. The last thing he heard before all went dark was the whisper of Tenna's voice as he smiled into his hair.
"Goodnight, Spammy."