Voicemail

by Maxwell_Gatz

Summary:

Stressed at work and needing a break, Spamton reluctantly decides to spend a night around town with some colleagues and friends.

👷‍♂️ (This fic's prior chapters are going through cleanup concerning grammar and consistency. Any notable inconsistencies are likely due to this ongoing process.)

Chapter 1

“Sender blocked,” alerts an electronic voice.

“Sender blocked,” it alerts once more.

“Sender, Send, Sen-sen-sen -”

A loud bang slashes through stagnant air. A coiled fist flexes atop a keyboard. Plastic strains under the weight as a muffled voice mewls in frustration. “Dammit…”

“Hey, Spamton,” someone calls out, their tone mellow with hushed concern. “You ok?”

Spamton’s breath quickens. He stands in alarm, looking to his left.

Standing in the doorway is a cyan addison. A black button-down business shirt, chartreuse khakis, burnt mahogany derby shoes, and burnt mahogany belt adorn his body. His expression, though soft and sporting a smile, shows alarm in the corners of his eyes. A tautness only Spamton notices due to their proximity as coworkers.

“Yea, Emil,” Spamton huffs, slicking back his plumage. He stands in front of his computer attempting to block its view. “Just - tired…”

“Hmm -” Emil chuffs. “You did take a long shift. Makes sense that you’re tired. Then again, when are you not?” he laughs with a hoarse voice, attempting to cut through the tension.

Unease spreads across Spamton's pursed lips, his attention fixed on the ground. It's clear his capacity to cultivate casual banter is absent.

The sound of a stack of papers tapping against Emil’s hand breaks the silence as he weighs the situation. “You know, your overtime’s been crazy and you’re not getting paid per hour. You should take ten.”

“I can’t. I’ve - I’ve got to take care of some things,” Spamton declines, eyes set on the ground, brushing back his plumage once more.

Emil studies Spamton. His white hue stands striking against the dim, musty, and muddled mailroom closet. His computer desk, what can be seen of it, has notebooks and coffee cups scattered about. Scraps of paper and sticky notes lay nestled in every crook and cranny like a maus’ nest. Upon casual review, one might presume that Spamton is overtaxed due to high demand. But Emil has worked with him long enough to know otherwise.

“You staying late?” Spamton asks, aware of Emil’s scrupulous inspection.

Emil’s attention returns to Spamton. Unlike other addisons, Spamton wears spectacles. The frames of which are round with clear lenses. Ruby irises lock onto Emil in a manner that fills him with unease. “Nah,” Emil responds. “Gonna’ go out with the guys. Actually... I wanted to ask if -”

“I can’t,” Spamton reiterates, cutting Emil off, but Emil speaks over him.

“You - don’t even know what I was going to ask,” Emil laughs breathlessly.

“If it’s the bar, I can’t.”

“I’ll pay.”

Spamton bites his lip.

“Drinks and whatever else. Come on,” Emil asks again in a playful yet restrained manner, a tinge of pleading in his tenor. “It’ll be fun.”

A submitting sigh trickles from Spamton. Shoulders droop a hair, releasing some of the strain. “Ok,” he agrees after a moment’s reluctance, looking up and donning a shaky smile.

“Great!” Emil exclaims, patting the door frame. “See you there,” he turns to leave, then spins back around. “The usual.”

“Yea,” Spamton confirms, waving him off with a downward cock of his head.

“Don’t work yourself to the bone,” Emil jests until noting Spamton’s relentless unrest. “Hey.”

Spamton, head downcast, glances from his periphery. “Yea?”

“I'm serious… Ok?”

“Yea.”

A soft exhale seeps through Emil’s parted lips while a furrowed brow gives way to concern despite the otherwise sunny appearance. Fingers tap the door’s frame in acknowledgment as he exits, closing the door behind him.

As the latch clicks into the strike plate, Spamton’s demeanor shifts. He turns to face his computer screen. The email recipient is still there.

He sits down and clicks a button. The recipient vanishes. A new one takes its spot. He minimizes the window.

Nubi Foot Pads!™ Do you have ankle pain? Are cankles cramping your style? Detoxify your chakra today! Reads the ad.

The font is a garish amalgamation of papyrus with a blowout effect and beveled emboss set against a mint-green background. Bamboo shoots litter the ad's frame. A foot, dainty in presentation dipped in a pool of water, is offset to the right with what appears to be fireflies emanating from the water’s surface.

Spamton slumps into his decrepit chair and it creaks under his lithe build. Sunken eyes fixate on the screen with a listless gaze staring beyond the cacophony of visual clutter. He minimizes the window, revealing another underneath. It’s a spreadsheet. To the left are the names and IP addresses of various individuals with statuses showing their activity. A few are noted as open clients while a majority have a completed status, but a far more noticeable amount have a different one.

Sender blocked.

Air hisses through Spamton’s teeth as he inhales, clasping his chest.

The trill rings out once more.

Tired eyes roll to his left. In the corner of his meager desk sits a rotary phone. Its ebony hue camouflages it within the dark recess. Its presence is only made known by the light defining its outline.

It rings again and Spamton clasps it, slowly lifting the receiver to his ear.

“H-hello?”

☎

“Hey! Watch it, asshole!”

Spamton clutches his chest as he steps back. Tires screech to a halt mere feet away.

"Move!" When Spamton remains stricken, the driver spits, taking note of his atypical appearance. “Spawn in yesterday or ya’ defective? ... Those addisons scam you those useless specs?”

Shock drains from Spamton, giving way to a different, more intense emotion. “No, they're prescribed. And I’d know if an addison were ‘scamming’ me since I’m one…”

“Heh,” sneers the driver, scanning him head to toe. “Don’t look it, half-pint…”

“Just drive, honey,” insists an impatient female passenger as cars honk behind them.

The driver does as told, slamming on the pedal.

Spamton shields his face and coughs. The odor of gas and oil spills into his lungs as the debris taint the air.

Bodies jostle him about like a ping pong ball as pedestrians accumulate. Beings ranging in size from plugboys to ambyu-lances bustle through the networking paths. Each seems aware yet unaware of their surroundings. They move where needed as though driven by instinct.

Spamton takes advantage of the crowd, running through the crosswalk before it turns red again. Once crossed, he inspects his black v-neck. “Shit…” he bemoans, “I just got this shirt. These stains -”

A flash of light explodes before him. “Stains on your clothes?” pries a zealous orange addison in a popup hologram. “Grass, dirt, and questionable liquids all wash away down the drain with Sudzero-X!™ That’s right! With Sudzero-X™ you can have a night around town without that frown!”

The ad dissolves as Spamton walks through it. The voice distorts. Pixels surround him like specks of stardust before reassembling and the ad resumes. It’s soon drowned out by the clings and clash of other ads as he presses onward.

The air in Cyber City is never still. If it’s not the traffic humming or screeching to a halt in one’s ear, it’s the nightlife and adverts running near eternal. But to residents like Spamton, it’s background noise. Especially tonight. Especially after…

He stops, clasping the left side of his chest. Methodical breaths exit him as he composes himself when a familiar voice, subdued though it is, makes itself known against the usual cacophony.

“Why so glum, chum? Alone on a Friday night eating that same frozen dinner?”

Spamton turns upward as though beckoned by a siren.

High in the sky, higher than the other pop-ups is a large banner atop a building. A pink addison inspects the crowd as if looking upon mortals, somewhat amused by their day-to-day. His plumage glistens with a shimmering iridescent sheen. It's groomed to perfection. Thick lashes frame his keen eyes. He bites his bottom lip, peeking over his shoulder.

“Why sulk when you can be sultry? At Banner’s Boutique™, we transform any bum from the slum into a star.”

His shoulders drop.

em>Why.

Why is he doing this.

On the surface he knows why. He told Emil he’d show. But - why? So he could listen to acquaintances babble about their luxurious lives while he fought to be taken seriously? Make ‘connections’ that will go nowhere?

He should go home.

But why?

What's he going to do at home?

Nothing.

He has nothing else.

So the logical choice is predetermined.

Go to the bar.

He'll spend an hour or so becoming more depressed as reality's hammered in his head by yammering yaps yelling over one another in a drunken stupor. Then he’ll go home to his crappy studio apartment and eat a thawed something-or-other from the freezer. Once the watery tasteless slop settles in his gullet, he'll shower, maybe masturbate to feel something beyond the chronic tightness in his chest. After overcoming that humiliation, he’ll lay comatose in bed until exhaustion puts him under.

He tries to refocus. Think positive, he begs himself… At least, he isn't homeless. He could be living in a dumpster. But at the rate rent was rising it might be a steal. Hell, at least a dumpster's free.

A smile flashes across Spamton's face at the idea as he composes himself. Who knows? Maybe it is a clever marketing strategy. Countless addisons littered the skies and streets with their wares. Maybe hocking garbage out of a garbage can would be the ticket he needs to make it big.

Spamton jogs through another crosswalk, making his way to the building where Banners’ ad plays on repeat. It’s tall. One of the tallest in Cyber City. Its facade absorbs the light around it, bouncing it in several directions like water rippling off a pond. The shimmering streaks are iridescent in hue, making the structure appear surreal.

This is the place.

Spamton composes himself one last time. He shakes the tension from his being. Flicking the last of it off the tips of his fingers before stepping into the lobby.

He’s a salesman and tonight he’ll put on a show. Whether he likes it or not.

☎

Emil taps the stem of his glass and scans the crowd.

A sea of addisons and various other residents stuff the floor throughout. Most cluster in the center while others occupy prime real estate by the windows. Seductive banter permeates the air like cheap cologne as individuals strike deals concerning work or - personal affairs…

“Emil, when’s your boyfriend gettin’ here?”

“Don’t know,” Emil replies, his attention fixed on the entrance. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Heh,” the voice across the table responds. “Sure... You lookin’ at that door like he is or somethin’.”

“Trigger, has it occurred to you being concerned about a friend is normal?” Emil turns and retorts, slight disdain visible in his facade.

“‘Course it has,” the yellow addison submits, taking a sip of his drink. “But if there's anyone you don’t have to worry about it’s that guy. ‘Sides from us I don’t think anyone's interested botherin’ him.”

“Why invite him? He never seems to enjoy this place,” an orange Addison responds dryly, sitting beside Trigger.

“He's just shy,” Emil asserts exasperated.

Popper doesn't respond and beyond taking a sip from his glass with a strange stare.

“I’m with Pops,” Trigger states, nudging the stoic addison. “Dude’s a buzzkill and weird...”

“He's always tense...” Popper amplifies.

“Look, I know you guys don’t know much about our advertising department but - that job can be really stressful.”

“'N what?” Trigger spits. “My job isn’t stressful? Why - today I had to shoot an ad for Turbo-9000™ and that client always changes their specs right before deadline. You know how long I was in the editing room? But - me being me being me of course, more than made due,” he boasts, winking and clicking his tongue.

“We made due...” Popper clarifies with a scowl.

“Yea yea,” Trigger scoffs, taking a sip of his drink.

Emil rubs his brow. “Spamton’s got a lot on his plate. I - he needs a break.”

“He needs more than a break,” Trigger laughs, miming an ice pick to the eye.

“Stop it,” Emil demands straining to remain calm. “He’s a fun guy when he’s -”

“Not spazin’ out?” Trigger interjects.

Popper puffs at his coworker’s jab, amused in his own dry way.

“Heh, 'Spazton' should be his name,” Trigger continues, elated by the response. “Has a ring to it."

Emil glares. “Don’t call him that…”

"What? S'all he does when he's here. Goes on and on about how he'll be a 'big shot' someday. But I see through his bullshit. After all - bullshit's what I sell. Guy's shakier than the engines that oil lubes up. Mark my word, the way those pistons fire off in that wackadoo brain of his, he’ll lose it any day now. Couldn't sell the floatiest floozie here a drink if his life depended on it… Oh - speakin’ of the lil’ schizo, there he is.”

Emil’s turns with haste toward Trigger’s line of sight.

Amongst the tall addisons a tuft of white is visible like a flower against a gob of garbage.

“Excuse me,” Emil pardons himself rushing forward, parting through the crowd. Most ignore him while others look down in a moment of aggravation before returning their attention elsewhere.

“No, it’s - a party of three,” Spamton clarifies to a birdlike bartender who could care less. “What do they look like? Well, they’re addisons so -”

“Spamton!” Emil shouts.

Spamton’s attention snaps to Emil. The warm matte hue from the bar illuminates the petite addison. Ruby eyes burn bright as the deep red of his irises stares back into Emil’s. Though haggard, Spamton corrects his lenses and displays the first calm and tender smile he’d given in a while.

“I’m so sorry,” Emil atones, surprised by his own nerves. Why was he nervous? “I forgot to tell you before I left - Trigger got us a window seat.”

Off-white lashes flutter with bewilderment. “He did?” Spamton questions. “How?”

“I didn’t get a chance to ask,” Emil explains, gesturing for Spamton to follow. “We were talking about other things.”

“Oh. Like what?” Spamton prods in a manner Emil cannot quite decipher.

“Doesn’t matter,” he brushes off, shaking his head. “I should’ve waited for you in case something like this happened though.”

“It’s ok - really,” Spamton reassures. “I'm the one who should apologize. Was running late because -” he goes quiet. There's a noticeable pause in his breathing.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Spamton chuckles through gritted teeth, though it sounds like spurts of steam from a kettle. He glances at Emil who’s not convinced. Spamton swallows, slicking back his crest. “I got a call from upstairs.” Emil opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Spamton blurts, “it’s nothing. Really, it’s - nothing…” he mutters, rubbing the left side of his chest.

Emil, able to conceal his concern under normal circumstances, looks on with consternation. “Ok,” he concedes. “If you want to talk about it later though, I’ll - walk you back to your place." He taps his thigh. "Or you can call me, ok?”

Spamton nods and attempts to smile, but this time he purses his lips and the smile, if one could call it that, doesn’t reach the entirety of his face.

Emil rubs Spamton’s back until the latter exhales, returning his hand to his side.

“Let’s get you something to drink.”

Chapter 2

“There’s the two lovebirds,” Trigger announces with a jestful swoon as Emil and Spamton approach the table.

“Where do you want to sit?” Emil asks Spamton, trying to ignore Trigger.

Spamton analyzes the seating. “By you would be easiest in case anyone needs to use the bathroom.”

Trigger chuckles as he watches Spamton sit down with Emil following suit.

“Shoot. We should’ve ordered you something to drink at the bar,” Emil notes, tapping the table in agitation with his thumb.

“It’s fine. Was only getting water anyways,” Spamton assures.

“What’s the point of comin’ to a bar if you ain’t gonna’ drink?” Trigger remarks.

“Hello to you too,” Spamton smirks.

“Hello!” Trigger waves, pretending to lift a hat. Popper nods in his usual stiff way. “What colorful cologne you’re wearing tonight.”

Spamton, preoccupied with pouring a glass of water and used to Trigger’s antics, ignores the snide remark.

“There’s more to do at a bar than drink,” Emil retorts.

“Sure, but that’s like goin’ to a five-star joint n’ gettin’ salad.”

“Could be a hell of a salad,” Spamton reasons, topping off his glass.

“Pft…”

“Besides, it’s a weekday.”

Trigger lifts his glass to his lips with a roll of his eyes, then stops. “Lemme' guess... You’re still doin’ overtime.”

“Yea. What’s wrong with overtime?”

“You’re always doin’ it, that’s what.”

Spamton smiles, trying to retain a cheery tone. “Gotta’ keep numbers up. Besides, I like it there.”

“Really. You dig that closet that muchthat much…” Trigger prods with a tenor more mocking than inquisitive.

“First - it's an old mailroom storage closet they converted to an office. Second - yep,” Spamton asserts not missing a beat. “And I do more than send emails. Which is a sales job.”

“I know it's your name n' all - but... I still don't understand how you need overtime to send emails... You're that slow?” Trigger sneers.

“It's not about the speed with which I type, it's about what I'm typing.”

“What do you mean?” Trigger shakes his head in confusion. "It's spam mail...”

“The design team makes the ad then other addisions in a separate division personalize it for individual recipients with a list I email each one based on the supervisor's master list,” Emil interjects, sensing Spamton's unease. “I told you this before, Trig.”

“Eh -” Trigger huffs in indifference, tapping his finger on his glass before sipping.

“I also work in advertising - sometimes... You know, pitching ideas. Selling services to potential clients,” Spamton cuts in.

“Sometimes, huh? Impressive...” Trigger sneers.

“Look... I know you think my job's crap...”

“It is,” Trigger whispers to Popper.

“But working there? I’m learning a lot. It’ll help me climb the ladder someday.”

Trigger purses his lips and raises his brow glancing at Popper mouthing, here we go.

“I already have mailman experience. In another year, give or take, I’ll be ready for street sales. A year after that - popups. I just know it...”

As Spamton elaborates, Emil takes all of him in. Spamton was sullen and shaken by - something to do with a call. Emil didn’t know what the call was about, but it couldn’t have been good. Or maybe it wasn’t bad and Spamton was having one of his moments. That wasn’t unexpected.

They’ve worked together for a while now. He's accustomed to Spamton’s quirks and habits. Every morning, Spamton arrived early before everyone else and left late every night. Exhausted and spent. Lately, he’s been going out with them less, but when he shows up, he always lights up the room. Others likely can't see it. After all, every addison seems to light up a room. Maybe that constant exposure makes them oblivious to it. It’s what they were born to do. But Spamton is - different. He always persists; putting his best foot forward. Doesn't matter when or where. Work or at the bar, it's as if he can't differentiate. As if the concept of winding down is as foreign as light is to the blind. It isn't queer that Spamton shifts from anxious to animated on a dime. It's innate. But lately, something's been - off…

Spamton's salesman facade, typical of any addison, doesn't feel like the instinctive reflex to pitch a product. That if removed he'd simply be. Despite orating to the group with the utmost enthusiasm about his hopes and dreams, it's stiff. He moves and talks in a fashion that's too calculated. No. Not calculated. Desperate. Even little things within his attire gave away that something's awry. His plumage and crest, while groomed, are no longer as groomed as other addisons. Restless hands run through it constantly. Frumpled clothes sag on his body more and more as weeks pass.

Emil can see it now. Spamton's breaking.

Yet despite the waves of misfortune eroding his facade, one element at his core remains intact.

His dogged determination.

Here he is, using every fiber, frayed though many are, of his being pitching the best version of himself to any who would listen.

“... That’s been my strategy,” Spamton attests as Emil refocuses on the matter at hand. “Mailroom gives me back door insight to -“ he pauses. “What's funny?" he asks Trigger with an exasperating sigh.

“Funny? I dunno’ what’s funny,” Trigger raises a brow, folding his hands and twiddling his thumbs, his eyes ping pong across the room. “You see somethin’ funny?”

“You're mocking me.”

“Mockin'? Naaah - no… Joshin' is all.”

“What's funny about what I'm saying?” Spamton demands to know.

“I mean -” Trigger turns to Popper who shakes his head. “This whole idea that you can break into popups when you're workin' in a closet's - out there.”

Spamton scoffs. “That idea's out there to you.”

“Yea. If you're struggling to send spam mail n' scheme n' make charts to break into my biz? It ain't happenin',” he chuckles.

“Whatever. Laugh all you want; I stand by what I said and it'll happen,” Spamton declares pointing a finger toward Trigger who brushes it off. “Not everyone gets the silver spoon to work in your field...” he scowls, sipping from his glass.

Trigger’s smarmy snobbery evaporates. “You think luck got me in?”

Spamton, the glass still touching his lips glares. “You said it, not me.”

“If I was shit at my job I’d be demoted to spam mail. Takes talent to do what I do. You’re just the email guy.”

“Guys,” Emil interjects.

Spamton's glass lands on the table with an audible thud. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it implies. Ya' hawk junk mail folks sooner toss than use as kindling or to wipe their ass if it were paper.”

A breathless laugh escapes Spamton. He strokes his crest back, collecting himself. “So you're agreeing landing sales via spam mail requires more talent," he ripostes, hands interlocked and elbows resting on the table while leaning in.

“Guys -”

“Fine…” Trigger concedes with a twitch of his upper lip. “Now add acting on top of that. Can ya' act?”

Emil stares Trigger down. Don’t, he mouths.

Trigger snatches his drink, thrusts his head back, and gulps it down.

“Look, guys - all our jobs contribute something to someone.” Emil proposes desperate to diffuse the situation. “We can all agree to that, right?”

“Oh - ok,” Trigger reclines, slamming his glass down and crossing his arms. “If we’re talkin’ contributions, Spamton must be number one salesman at that moldy mailroom since he lives there. His numbers match mine, right?”

Emil squints. “Why do you think I’d -”

“You're his supervisor.”

“… I’m not his supervisor. I’m - team lead...”

“Yea sure you’re not technically, but - he reports to you, doesn’t he?” Trigger asserts, pointing to the two of them. The acuity in his gesture implies something more.

Emil’s tongue presses against his lower teeth as his bottom lip rolls inward.

“Why you givin’ me that look?” Trigger pouts feigning shock. “You’re team lead, so you two must spend a lot of time together. Talkin' numbers n’ whatnot late into the night,” he smirks. “So I'm askin', what's his sales?”

Without warning, Popper claps his hands together. “Speaking of work I think we lost track of what makes tonight special and that’s -”

“Oh yea!” Trigger cuts in, snapping his fingers. “We got promoted! Pops an’ I no longer gotta’ hawk motor oil n’ antifreeze!” he slaps Popper on the shoulder, jostling him about. “Isn’t that great?”

Indignation expels itself in a shaky sigh as Emil tolerates the stand-down. “Yea,” he swallows. “That’s great, guys...”

“In fact - that’s how I was able to get us this window seat,” Trigger boasts, tapping the table, swaying to and fro.

“I - don’t understand,” Emil murmurs, the remnants of agitation seeping through. “Didn’t you luck out on reservations?”

“Fuck no,” Trigger cackles. “That’s like winning the lottery - no… Like I said - gone are the days' Popper and I sell crap for Cungaderos™. We’re gonna‘ be stars!“

“You’re working for Banner?”

The entire table looks at Spamton.

“Yea,” Trigger confirms with genuine surprise. “Popups for the main man himself! In fact, he should be stopping by.”

“... What.”

“Yea, it’s somethin’ he likes to do when there are new hires under him. Directly under him,” Trigger emphasizes with a haughty head wag. “Pops n' I will be workin' here on his advertising floor. One above this. Anywho, like I was sayin’, he likes talkin' to new hires personally. Guy's a socialite like that.” Trigger glances into his empty glass then his eyes, a rich golden hue, snap back onto Spamton. They dig deep into his being like a lion surveying its prey. “Guess you could say we’re big shots now.”

Emil turns to Spamton.

His expression is still indiscernible. Eyes, brows, mouth, posture, nothing reveals any sign of anger or agitation.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Spamton whispers while Trigger and Popper talk amongst each other.

“Hey -” Emil starts, but Spamton cuts him off with a listless shake of his head.

Emil rises.

“Hey, where you goin’?” Trigger prods.

“He’s going to the bathroom,” Emil explains with an upbeat smile, distracting Trigger as Spamton shuffles past.

“Good. Hold on,” Trigger commands, pulling something out of his pocket. It’s a bottle of cologne. “Spray some of that on and make yourself cute,” he requests of Spamton, tossing it to Emil. “If Banner’s worth his money that'll mask the oil.”

Emil puts his hand on Spamton’s shoulder, but he pulls back, taking the bottle and skittering towards the bathroom.

☎

Nebulous shapes and lights flash past. The sound of patrons laughing and dining at the bar blends into a hum, then noise, then into nothingness.

Something, or someone, presses against him. He’s trapped in what feels like a crush. Bodies writhe betwixt one another like maggots as he wriggles past.

Away.

Away.

Run away from it all.

He grabs something and maneuvers it.

Without warning, as though rising from a nightmare, it stops.

The cacophony of sounds, lights, and shapes, all shifting and changing around him solidify. Soft jazz plays from a singular intercom and a row of mirrors hang to his left above several sinks.

When you spend all your time in a murky mail room everything feels dissociative. Objects aren't as sharp. The only thing that illuminates some structure into your world is your monitor. All else is but a mirage. And the ceaseless bombardment of ads and billboards, of neon lights at the bar and grill - it's ever-changing. An amalgamation of amorphous color like iridescent streaks of motor oil. Now he stood before a fluorescent light in a static room. Now he could see himself.

And he hated what he saw.

Why did he run to the bathroom? Why didn’t he leave.

He doesn’t belong here.

He doesn't belong anywhere.

He's a freak.

A nervous wreck.

A failure.

He's sinking. Sinking further and further into...

No.

Not here.

Not now.

He can’t leave.

No.

He won't leave.

He won't let Trigger have the last word.

He won't let his nerves get the best of him.

He won't let Emil -

He winces, averting his gaze. Fingers dig deep into the left side of his chest.

No.

He won't devour himself.

He strains to see the man in the mirror. He strains until the aching stops, and he lets go.

He can’t control the perception of others or how they treat him, but he can control his perception; his actions. He calls his own shots and he’ll fire at the ready.

Chapter 3

Patrons come and go as late evening transitions into night. Emil’s placid demeanor was gone. His expression, although not immediately apparent, harbored hints of distress. There's no urge to engage his friends. He doesn’t even process what they’re saying. Their titters and tales dissolve into the cheap banter and bribery consuming the bar, so he sets his interests outside the window.

Endless fields of radiant light flash into existence then fade. Their content, usually an ad of some kind or form of entertainment, is soon replaced by another. Then another - soon to forgotten by passersby.

So many addisons littered the street be they physical or digital. The most successful took up banner and popup sectors. Isolated within their digital world sporting broad smiles as they pitched wares or services. Then there's street vendors. The majority, regardless of status, have similar attire - a black shirt, typically a v-neck, and chartreuse pants. For one reason or another, customers associate this match of wares with business. Only those with distinct status, brand deals, or high income went against this trend.

Addison hues are predictable too. Carnation pink, cyan, marigold, and lemon yellow are the default. Sometimes variances in tints, tones, and shades occur. It isn't unheard of. It's the one variance that sometimes benefits an addison. Customers believe it makes them and their promotions special. It makes them stand out without changing too much. But never has there been an addison like Spamton. No one, in Emil's experience and those he’s asked, has seen someone like him. Those who became accustomed didn’t mention much of it. But for those who were new or know nothing of him, their response is - not positive.

Why?

Beyond his color or lack thereof, his glasses, and height, Spamton isn't any different. Stranger still, his work day is composed of sending emails and crafting the occasional sales pitch. None of his recipients have ever laid eyes upon him. But for whatever reason, Spamton isn't only disadvantaged, but downright unlucky.

As much as Emil denied it, Trigger's right. Spamton’s numbers - aren't good. He’d heard as much from higher-ups during meetings although he was never given direct stats. After all, he's team lead. That kind of hard data is for managers and supervisors. All Emil knows is that there's lackluster performance and who the culprits are. His job is to ensure everyone meets department objectives. And Spamton? He does more than requested or required and goes above and beyond. He works himself to the bone. There's nothing Emil can find of Spamton's character or work ethic that accounts for this.

So why?

Why Spamton?

Emil furrows his brow, deep in contemplation.

“Hey - cut the clackin'.”

Emil looks up.

“This isn''t band practice. Tappin' away like the game's tomorrow.” Trigger remarks, gesturing to Emil’s hand.

Emil pats the table, resting his palm atop it. Returning his attention to the window.

Trigger, with consternation in his voice, prods, “you're not mad about my jabs earlier, are ya’?”

“Those weren’t jabs...” Emil retorts, his attention to the outside unwavering.

“I'm just messin’ around,” Trigger justifies with a tinge of annoyance. “Normally you don’t give a shit.”

“I can tolerate it; Spamton can’t.”

“So what if he can’t? That’s his problem.”

Emil's locks onto Trigger. “His problem?”

Trigger, aware he’s crossed a line, quiets himself, but it only lasts for a moment. “Yea,” he doubles down. “Not my fault the squirt’s sensitive.”

“Why do you do this,” Emil interrogates, his ire ignited.

“Do what?”

“This ,” Emil gestures to Trigger’s being. “Why does everything have to be at the expense of someone? Why him? … Do you even consider him a friend?”

“Yea - sure,” Trigger submits in a less than reassuring way. “As for jokin’, why not him? What’s so special about him I can't have a little fun?”

“Because -” Emil pauses, shutting his eyes and resting his hand against his forehead. “Because it’s not fun. Not for him. And he’s going through a lot.”

“We’re all going through a lot. Like I said, I poke fun at everyone. You want me to put the lil’ powder puff on a pedestal?”

“If - that's what you call being a little empathetic, then please - do so…”

“Whatever,” Trigger huffs in agitation. “I really don’t see what you find so attractive about him.”

Emil clenches his jaw and swallows. “Stop…” He requests with strained composure.

“I mean - I fry his nerves? He fries mine. 'Big shot this, big shot that. Someday I'm gonna' be a big shot.' Yea... he'll 'pull it off someday'. But I see it, we all see it - it ain’t gonna’ happen. I mean - look at him...“ Trigger pauses, his tone shifting to one of pity. “... He's a loser.”

“I said stop…”

“Why?" Trigger denounces. "Open your eyes, man. No one wants what he’s sellin’. He’d do better vendin’ junk out of a dump.”

“Shut up.”

Trigger recoils.

Emil's hand presses against the table with such force tendons flex as though nocked to strike. “You can think and say whatever you want about me, but not him. Got it?”

“I -”

“Shut up,” he commands once more. “You’ve harassed him for weeks and for what? Cheap thrills? You have it easy now because you worked hard. Said so yourself, and it paid off. You got promoted for it. Isn’t that good enough? You - of all people, should know where he’s coming from. All he wants is to fit in and he tries so - so hard. And instead of giving him advice or, or - being a friend you hit him when he’s down. Why? What is it about yourself that compels you to pick on him? Why are you filled with such contempt?”

Trigger remains mute.

Emil sighs, wiping his forehead, then taps the table with his thumb. He gets up without saying a word, disappearing into the crowd.

☎

Passing through thick crowds is always troublesome for Spamton. Due to his height, discernable landmarks are often out of view. Crowds are like ever-changing labyrinths. At least with streets, he can see billboards and adverts to ground him. The bar has none of these benefits; at least nothing distinct. Just a barrage of neon lights and music.

After some effort, he finally makes his way to the table where his friends are.

“Where’s Emil?”

“Think he went to get another drink or somethin’,” Trigger acknowledges in a subdued manner.

“He didn’t say?”

Trigger shakes his head, adding nothing more.

“I’m sure he’ll be back,” Popper insists. His response, usually laden with apathy, is also peculiar.

Spamton sits with hesitance. Something is off. He opens his mouth, then closes it, thinking better of the situation. But not knowing, it eats at him. “Something - happen while I was gone?”

Neither respond.

Shit, he thinks to himself. He'd just calmed himself down. Maybe he should get a drink. But he just sat. It would be weird to get back up. And if he were to bump into Emil… Nerves buzzing, Spamton grabs the pitcher, pouring himself a glass of water. He attempts to ignore the aberration of the atmosphere while finishing the glass. Once done, he pours another, trying to pass the time.

Finally, Emil emerges. Spamton’s heart skips a beat before settling, but as Emil approaches, it skips again.

Emil notices him and shines a subtle weary smile as he sits.

“Where’d you go? The guys and I thought you went to the bar.”

“Uh - yea,” Emil responds with a bit offbeat. “Had a couple shots.”

“On a work night?” Spamton chuckles, his concern transparent through his corny jest.

Emil, his hand coiled into a fist with his thumb tapping his bottom lip doesn’t react.

“Hey -” Spamton whispers. When no response comes, he rests his hand on Emil's thigh under the table in an attempt to be discreet. Emil stiffens, causing Spamton to withdraw. Embarrassed, Spamton gulps down another glass of water.

A sudden burst of excitement radiates from a different entrance, one for VIPs. Everyone at the table turns toward the commotion. Spamton swallows, aware of what the clamor is all about.

Addisons react to the newcomer with a myriad of emotions. Some express jubilance while others express genuine fear as they groom with haste. But all are vying for his attention.

As the crowd parts a male addison steps forward. His plumage is a rich magenta with a light iridescent sheen. Donning his body is an off-white long-sleeved shirt with an orange and blue tie. The sleeves are tidy, resting above his elbows, and on his left wrist is a platinum watch. A beige vest snugs his waist and his dress pants are a rich dark gray. His shoes, deep mahogany, finish off the look with faded blue socks peeking through.

“Yes,” the addison responds to an assistant by his side as they approach the table. “Give that to the production coordinator.”

“Right away, sir,” a female yellow addison nods as she departs to handle affairs.

“Well, hello hello!” he greets Trigger and Popper, both of whom stand to attention. “No need to get up, gentlemen,” he snickers, “my time is precious."

“Hello Banner - sir,” Trigger greets like a pup on his belly, doing all he can to placate his new boss before sitting back down. “It’s amazing to meet you in person!”

“Yes, sir,” Popper adds giving direct eye contact and a low bow. “I've heard this is a tradition of yours and it's an honor to be a part of it.”

“Why thank you, Popper,” Banner acknowledges with respective glances, “and Trigger.”

Both addisons laugh breathlessly as they glance at one another and back to him.

“But... You heard that this is something I do?”

Popper gulps, unsure if he’s made a mistake.

“What my friend means, sir, is it’s something we researched before applying,” Trigger reframes. “We come here a lot n' hear many things. You can never be sure what’s true or not. But - I had the opportunity to talk to Indie, your archive coordinator through - various connections. She verified the claim."

“And that right there is why I hired you fine men!" Banner exclaims impressed. "I didn’t earn the title of Number One Salesman circa 1992 and ‘93 on mere presumptions. No. I find out what people know and don’t know. That information informs me of what they want but more importantly, didn’t know they wanted. I like addisons who ask. Record sales are an information game first and foremost. Never forget that.”

“One hundred percent agree, sir!” Trigger fawns.

As Banner raises his arm to check his watch, Spamton catches his eye.

“Why, who are these fine fellows?”

“Uh -” Trigger stalls, having forgotten they were present. “That’s Emil and - that’s Spamton.”

A complaisant courtesy spreads itself across Banner’s face as he observes Emil. But upon eying Spamton, it cracks. Their eyes, similar in hue, peer deep into one another.

Unsure of what to do or say, Spamton meekly raises his hand. “Hello, sir” he greets. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yes,” Banner acknowledges, but Spamton, having heard this tone before, becomes tense. “How do you two know them?” Banner questions.

Trigger, concerned by Banner’s scrutinous survey, interjects. “Well they’re -”

“I didn’t ask you, I asked him,” Banner disciplines, his attention retained on Spamton.

The mute blush residing in Spamton’s face bleeds out. “I met Trigger and Popper through my - coworker… Emil.”

“That so?”

“Yes,” Emil confirms with a gentle nod and genuine good humor. His prior agitation diffused within the drinks he had.

“What sector do you two work?” Banner presses.

“Mailing and advertising,” Emil responds.

“You two never told me you worked in email,“ Banner states, glancing at Trigger and Popper.

“They worked in advertising and sales,” Emil explains, causing Banner to return his attention to him. “We had crossover clients even though we worked for different companies. Such as Prestsheen™.”

“Ever more confusing…” Banner notes with a sneer.

“The clients we shared host conferences and meetups. That’s how we met.”

“Well, that explains it then. Fascinating!” Banner chuckles, his interrogative tone subduing. “Especially since these two had the highest numbers for their district. I presume you two have equivalent numbers to have worked alongside the likes of them. Does that ring a bell?” Banner asks Trigger.

“Yes, sir,” Trigger confirms with a tinge of jealousy on his tongue, "And Emil's work is excellent. He's team lead of his department," he remarks, attempting to boost his status.

"Hmm," Banner blinks surprised, "not bad. I take it you're new then..." he redirects to Spamton.

"Uh - somewhat," he expounds with a taut titter. "My name's Spamton. Spamton G. Spamton, but my real -."

“I know your name,” Banner reminds, head cocked down with this attention retrained upon him. “I asked if you were new.”

“Oh -” Spamton laughs breathlessly. Shit… “Umm - compared to everyone else. Yes. Yes I am.”

"I see. And what's your position?"

“I’m -”

Just the email guy.

“I do advertising sometimes...”

“Sometimes?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Trigger smirks.

Spamton explains trying his best to keep up the show. But he feels it. Although he maintains a shaky stare with Banner, all eyes are on him. He is on trial. Pangs of pain radiate through his chest. Each breath is strenuous. “... But I mostly - umm - I mostly compose -”

“You send emails.”

All that preparation, all that he mustered for this moment to shine dies. Snuffed away like a candle's flame.

“Yes.”

Banner chuffs as a parent would observing their child’s macaroni art. “Well, who am I to judge? I have an email team myself! But, as with anything, you’re only as strong as your weakest link. And when I do need their services, I expect the best. I’m sure your team lead understands this.”

“Yes, sir,” Emil submits with restraint.

“Despite your position, you must be proficient,” Banner asserts with halfhearted care. “Well! If you two don’t mind, I’d like to borrow your friends!” he declares, returning his attention to Trigger and Popper. “Might as well show them around before their start date while I have a few minutes to spare.” With a flick of his finger, he indicates for them to rise, and they spring from their seats.

“It was nice meeting you, sir,” Emil says. Spamton gives a frail nod in agreement.

A quivering sigh leaves Spamton's fraught form as they leave.

“I’m - calling it a night..."

A sudden clarity strikes itself into Emil. “Wait -”

Spamton stands, but Emil doesn't.

“Spamton, wait…”

But Spamton slides past, disappearing into the crowd.

Chapter 4

Pins creak as metal scrapes against metal within an aged padlock. Muted thuds rattle the door until it opens. Weary moans seep from rusted hinges as Spamton enters his studio apartment with mail in hand.

Fatigued feet trudge against carpet. It’s so old and worn that traveled paths show bald spots and thinning, revealing aged wood beneath.

He veers to his left. In the corner is a small wooden desk. A rotary phone sits atop an answering machine, which in turn sits atop a file cabinet. At the right end of the table rests an unused coffee cup with writing utensils inside, along with a shoebox containing mail. To its right is a trash can. Above the writing desk is a cork bulletin board with various notes.

Paper crinkles as he sorts the mail. He discards the majority which is junk into the trash and inspects what's left.

Bills. Two are overdue.

Spamton presses his hand against his chest as upset creeps through him. He braces for a bout of anxiety, but it fades. Under normal circumstances, he'd open the daily mail then adjust his budget to pay what he can. Not today… He sighs, tossing the mail in the shoebox.

Spamton glances at the phone. He rubs his face in exhausted apprehension knowing he should check it. Wouldn't want to miss anything important.

He presses the play button and a cassette clicks.

It's nothing but garbage noise; the quality of which makes his face sour.

Spam calls aren't unusual. But lately, he's been getting similar messages as this one. All of them are incomprehensible eerie nuisances. He shrugs it off. This person is either a prankster or has a bad connection. It's a relief either way it's not landlord or collectors. He erases the message.

Spamton stares at the phone. The window, the only window in his studio apartment, illuminates it with hazy hues of distant ads and car lights seeping through the alley.

With no more messages to check and not much to do, he ambles about, searching for distraction. He checks the clock on a small table by his decrepit foldout couch. It’s barely 10pm. He could watch TV and he hadn't eaten since lunch.

Spamton shuffles to his mini fridge and opens it. Inside is a quarter gallon of milk, bread, questionable-looking salami, and condiments. He could make a sandwich, but he’s had that eight nights in a row. He stares at the salami, unsure if the white spots are mold or not. He'll inspect that more in the morning... Cool air stings his eyes as he opens the freezer. Two frozen dinners sit atop one another. Ice encases the boxes making the contents indecipherable. The only discernable words are SALE 50% on bright yellow stickers. Doesn't matter. It's all the same tasteless slop. He takes out the top one, pops it into the microwave then eats it while standing. The meager assortment of food zaps what little hunger he had from his wracked nerves. He pours a glass of milk and downs it, satiating whatever appetite remains. He closes the door and picks up a pen strung to a notepad taped to the fridge, writing down the groceries he needs. Once done, he rummages through an envelope taped to the fridge. Inside are coupons. He checks to see if any expired. One has, so he crumples it, making his way back toward the work desk to toss it.

As he approaches the trashcan the phone rings.

Spamton catches his breath. Who could be calling at this hour? As he’s about to pick up the receiver, he stops.

He knows who it is.

RING

He should pick up the phone.

RING

But he’ll want to talk about tonight.

RING

About work.

RING

About the bar.

RING

About -

click

One message.

The sharp pain in his chest returns.

Shower. He needs to shower. Shower and go to bed.

☎

Spamton undresses at a feverish pace. Clothes fly into the air, landing haphazardly in a laundry basket as he enters the bathroom and then the shower.

The faucet creaks and sputters upon activation. Hands rake through his crest as water beads and trickles down snowy plumage. Again and again and again as if he's rummaging for nits or ill humors plaguing his mind. With each motion, the tension in his muscles wanes. He shakes off, turning his focus to the rest. Fingers pick through feathers reaching from his nape and shoulders. Digits comb down the spine and sides through downy feathers. As he grooms his lower back and bobbed tail, downy feathers reappear albeit less prominent. Even finer down reminiscent of a newborn chick covers the rest, giving way to flesh. He preens each section with rigor until he feels confident all is accounted for. He grabs soap and lathers his hands. Fingertips move in soft, slow circles around the face. He rinses off and lathers again. Working his way from his lower chest to his groin.

Under normal circumstances, the act of caressing such a sensitive area caused arousal. How could it not? In the shower there was seclusion, it was warm, and it was slick. It's the one place he feels comfortable enough to do such a thing. One of the few reliefs he has. It's also the cleanest way to go about it. Male and female addison genitals are internal. When expressed, they're always moist. It makes sense to do it in the shower.

But at present, he feels nothing. Getting off after a day like today was a herculean task. The conditions allowing for a minute or less of reprieve are absent. He could try. But failure to finish would lead to resentment and embarrassment. He’d had enough of both to last a lifetime.

He rinses, turning off the faucet. Water flies about as he shakes before grabbing a towel to dry off the rest. After a brief blowdry, he brushes and flosses his teeth. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror. He knows he's haggard, but at least he’s groomed for tomorrow. He rinses then spits; heading into the main room to put on some briefs.

He dresses and starts for the foldout when a blinking light catches his peripheral attention.

Spamton knows what it is without turning to see.

This brief comfort is a fool's distraction. Emil’s his team lead. They’ll see one another during morning and midday check-ins. He needs to handle this now.

Yet, he remains stricken.

Come on... Just listen to the message.

He flinches forward, stalls, then approaches with a brisk pace, picking up the receiver. The click of the play button sounds as he presses it.

click

“Hey, this is Emil. Checking in; to make sure you got home safe. I know it’s a pretty long walk to your place and you normally walk so - yea. Just checking in… Also, if you want to talk before work tomorrow about the call and... tonight - I’m here for you. … I didn't mean for any of that to happen...” Emil explains in the message with a forlorn sigh. “Hope you’re ok, but understand if you’re not and need space. I’m here for you though… Ok? I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a g -”

click

Spamton stares at the phone.

Emil is his boss first and foremost and coworker second. And although it was clear they were friends outside of work there's this - tension.

Maybe it's because Spamton's a nervous wreck all the time. Maybe it's because he's struggling at work. But something always scratches beneath Emil’s workplace and bar demeanor.

Emil's team lead. His job is to ensure the happiness of everyone. But having observed Emil's interactions in the office, there is a notable difference... Emil's veneer through words and gestures fit the role with everyone else. The tone is professional. His actions and empathy are genuine; it's the core of his being. Yet within that core is a singularity; the soul. That’s what Spamton saw. Him and him alone.

As far as he can tell Emil rarely makes the effort to hang out with anyone else outside of work. Only him. When Trigger and Popper can't show up for their bar nights, Emil asks that the two of them go regardless. Especially if it's a Friday. Spamton, preferring it being the two of them anyway, obliged, even more so than other days. He'd never admit it out loud, but he's happier with just the two of them. No - thrilled. The heat of Trigger and the chill of Popper are absent. All that remains is Emil's warmth. That warmth, while always present, blooms even brighter between the two of them. With Emil Spamton feels... Free.

He should call him back.

... What would he say?

Don't overthink - Just talk to him.

Stop being anxious...

They’ll see each other tomorrow. Spamton can’t change that outcome, but he can choose his effect upon it.

He gulps. A sharp exhale emanates through clasped teeth like a tea kettle. He lifts the receiver and inserts his finger into the number plate. Rotating it until he finishes the phone number.

RING

He rubs his hand against his crest.

RING

He turns his attention to the window to calm himself. All he can see is a brick wall with boarded windows on the other side.

RING

He imagines what's beyond that boarded window.

RING

If he were on the other side of it.

RING

He closes his eyes, removing the receiver from his ear.

“Hello?”

Spamton catches his breath.

“Emil.”

“Spamton,” Emil declares as if surprised. “Hey. Hey. How are you?” he asks with a relieved yet strained voice.

“Are you ok?” Spamton asks, picking up Emil’s breathless response.

“Yea, I just - I had to get up from my living room to my bedroom. How are you? How was your walk home?”

Even now Emil can’t help but worry. Spamton turns from the window as a broad smile spreads across his face from the warmth of his friend's voice. “I’m ok,” Spamton reassures. He wasn’t lying either. At present, he is ok. “My walk home was fine,” he explains, pulling out the chair and sitting.

“That’s great! Just wanted to make sure. Some of those streets can be sketchy. … Next time please let me pay for bus fare.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. It’s why I’m offering.” After a pause, Emil adds, “as a friend.”

Friend.

Spamton bites his lip and a tinge of guilt brews in his throat along with - something else. “Sorry I ran off. That I’ve been - off lately.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Emil chuckles. “We all have off days.”

“Yea but -”

“And that’s ok.”

“Yea, but -” god… How does he go about this? He sighs. “It’s been, kinda’ rough for me.”

“... I know,” Emil acknowledges with a noticeable tonal shift.

“... That call…” What feels like needles prick at his lungs. The receiver shakes. His free hand presses into his chest, cord and all. “My numbers are low. Really low. I’ve -” he labors to speak, “I haven't made a single sale…”

“This week?” Emil pries with a hint of unease. “That’s ok; sometimes -”

“Since I’ve started.”

Silence.

Before Spamton knows it, words spill from his mouth like a river of blood as though he’s ripped out his heart.

“Trig’s right.”

“Hey -”

“I’m a failure. None of my ideas pan out. I’ve tried everything. I - I don’t know what to do,” he warbles, hyperventilating. “I keep losing clients. I keep - I’m - I don’t even know. I’m - why? What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re not doing anything wrong…”

“I’m an addison. I can't even -” he gasps for air. “I’m a freak.”

“ Hey -”

“And a failure.”

“Stop.”

“I have nothing to offer. To anybody.”

“That’s -“

“I’m the email guy and I can’t even do that…”

Silence.

Spamton’s sputtering breaths are all that fill the schism between them.

Pathetic.

Fucking pathetic.

“Spamton -”

No response.

“Spamton… You’re not a failure.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“What?”

“I said - you don’t have to lie…” Spamton repeats with sorrow.

“I wouldn't lie..."

“Please,” he begs, “don’t mess with me…”

“Spamton, I’m not. Listen -”

“I -”

“Listen,” he commands with striking stoicism laden with stern sincerity. “You’re not a failure and I'm not messing with you. I would never do that... Ok?” He reassures more gingerly, “ok?”

“Emil,” Spamton snarls, “they told me on the phone I haven't made a single sale since I’ve started. Thirty-eight percent of my clients blocked my IP. I’ve set a corporate low.” He grits his teeth, doing everything imaginable to stave away tears. “What the hell do you call that?”

“... So your numbers are low… They didn’t fire you, did they?”

“... No,” Spamton whimpers, slicking back his crest. “They’re giving me three months until the next report…”

“See? You’re still there,” Emil bolsters. “That's good. That's a very good thing."

“... Maybe,” Spamton whispers, “but, that doesn’t explain why they haven't, does it?”

“… What?”

“You said it yourself; my numbers are low. They’re the lowest of anyone there.” Spamton swipes away unshed tears. He waits for Emil to say something. Instead, what sounds like a soft swallow is audible alongside him shifting atop the bed. When no reply comes, he resumes. "Why?”

Emil sighs. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you have a lot to offer.”

Spamton rebukes him with a snide chuff. “To who? How? No one at work even looks my way.”

“To me.”

Caught off guard, he freezes. For once, it’s not of panic but of anticipation. Curious anticipation. “... What do you mean?”

“You're always the first person to step up to fix something or take extra hours when needed. You do so much for me - for our department."

A warm sensation travels through Spamton. A sheepish chuckle leaves him as though tickled by its emergence. “If you’re talking about the printer I don’t think changing toner or removing jams counts. Anyone can do that.”

“And they don’t. You do. I’m clumsy,” Emil chuffs. “Two left hands. I gave up trying to fix that thing a long time ago. And while everyone bickered over the budget for a new one, you searched for the manual. You read it. You reconfigured the settings.”

“And the first time I tried changing the toner it exploded in my face,” Spamton reminds with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“True, but - you fixed it,” Emil emphases.

Spamton squirms in his seat. He feels, strange...

“It - was funny though,” Emil continues with a hearty laugh. “You looked like a cupcake with sprinkles.”

“Thanks, Emil. Next time the toner explodes on me I’ll keep it on,” Spamton winces. Why did he say that? “People like cupcakes. Ghosts? Not so much. I could use a makeover,” he adds, trying to be less awkward, cringing at the attempt.

Emil’s laughter slams to a stop. “Don’t say that about yourself.”

Spamton stiffens. “Don’t say what?”

“That you look like a ghost.”

“Well,” Spamton snickers, picking at the down on his chest, “people act like that’s what they see. Something creepy or freaky I guess. I’m used to it. I get more work done since I'm left alone.” He bites his lip. God he sounds stupid...

“They’re wrong. You’re not creepy. You’re not a freak - you’re none of those things.”

“Well -” Spamton stalls, squirming on the chair. “What am I then?”

“You’re - …” Emil goes silent.

It's scarcely audible, but in the still Spamton can make out what sounds like - shivering. He clasps the receiver to his ear. “What am I?” When no response comes, he prods again. “What am I, Emil?"

“You're - you're like everyone else.”

Spamton swallows, licking his lips. “That's all?” he presses with a hushed voice.

The shivering emanating from Emil's breath travels down Spamton's being into his core, making him squirm.

“... No,” Emil finally replies with a sharp exhale. “It's getting pretty late. We should call -”

“What else am I?”

Emil catches his breath. He laughs, but it's not as amiable as before. “Spamton; we - ... We both should go to bed.”

“Ok,” he concedes before reminding him, “but I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Spamton...”

“And -” his heart races as he takes the plunge. “And when I see you I'll - keep asking myself, 'what does he think of me.'”

“Handsome.”

Spamton’s pulse quickens. “... Handsome?”

“Yes.” Emil confirms, barely audible. “I - I think, you’re handsome.”

Spamton’s mind goes blank.

No one had ever complimented him in a manner that wasn’t backhanded. His hand trails from his chest to his thigh as he adjusts himself.

“You’re kind. You’re gentle…” Emil stalls, swallows, and speaks in a manner Spamton had never heard from him. “I - I like being around you.”

Spamton closes his eyes. Emil’s default is almost always composed and chipper whereas he's neurotic and skittish. In secret, he envies that about Emil and is drawn to it. There are thoughts. Suppressed thoughts... Often in seclusion or late at night. He never entertains them. What's the point? Yet here they are. Composure rapidly eroding for both of them. Exposed and bringing life to the stale air with each shaky breath as they speak. Their words brimming with something they both share.

He's in a trance. There's a soothing ebb and flow that's all too familiar. It’s then he realizes what he’s doing.

He doesn’t care, yet he should. This is his friend. His boss. He's touching himself to his boss. He could hear it. Those hitches in Emil’s breathing. If Emil isn't doing the same he's at least using every fiber of his being to abstain.

Spamton isn't going to allow that.

“I like being around you too,” he mewls. Leg muscles tense at the sensation of him rubbing between his entrance. Soft strokes titillate the tip peaking through. It’s slick- sensitive. It swells, pressing against the fabric of his briefs causing a soft moan to escape him.

“We -” Emil grunts. “We shouldn’t be doing this…”

“We shouldn’t or you don’t want to?”

Silence.

“... Spamton…”

“I - didn’t leave on a good note,” Spamton acknowledges, pulling down his briefs and stroking his exposed shaft. He flexes from the sensation as his grip tightens. “I want - I want to make up for that.” Something muffled comes through the receiver. “Let’s end tonight on a good note…”

Metal clacks as Emil undoes his buckle. Leather scrapes against it at a fevered pace. The clasp jingles as rustling sounds reverberate. “I wish - I was there. I wish I could touch you. I’ve -” his breathing hitches, “I’ve wanted to; for a long time.”

Emil’s words strike Spamton's heart with such precision he almost drops the receiver. They race through his veins down down down into his core. He's burning and he’s hard; very hard. He rises, leaning against the table as to not drop the receiver as he focuses on the matter in his literal hand. “Me too,” he mutters with a pathetic whine. “I want that too. What would you do if you could touch me?”

That question ignites something in Emil. “What I wouldn’t do…” he proclaims with fierce fervor. “You haven’t - you haven’t had it easy. But I’d -” his voice breaks, “I’d be gentle. I want you to feel that; know that. But we're -”

“No. Don’t hold back,” Spamton demands through clenched teeth. Hips give in to the stimulation and begin thrusting. The thought of what Emil could do to him makes him feral. “You’re always holding back. You’re always so kind to me. I’m not weak,” he asserts through hushed, broken breaths.

“Spamton…” Emil pants.

“What if you weren’t?”

“God…”

“Don’t hold back,” Spamton demands on the brink of it all. His back arches, hips thrusting at a fevered pace. The ecstasy causes self-lubricant to ooze through the gaps of his grip. The tip slides down the row of hot firm digits and up again. Again and again like a piston. Each motion fragments his awareness until they float like dust into a void. He hears Emil, groaning, panting, begging on the other end. It consumes him. He needs more. He must have more. "Emil..." he calls out. The receiver creaks as his grip tightens. A surge of emotions thrash inside him. He's ravished - overstimulated. Soft mewls escalate into repressed whines as he teeters on the edge. The foundation of his resolve splinters. He leans forward. Wood aches as he bares his entire weight atop the table.

Then Spamton hears Emil. He hears that all too familiar moment before release and he plummets into the abyss. A sharp cry sprints from his chest. Sporadic rapid thrusts convulse from his hips until he seizes - going numb.

Silence.

He floats in nothingness until something, someone, breaks the barrier.

“...”

He can’t decipher it.

“...”

“.... Spamton…”

Spamton presses the receiver to his ear but feels only flesh. He blinks in rapid accord as the room comes into focus.

“Spamton?”

He turns to his left, picking up the receiver.

“... Yea?”

“Are - you ok?”

Spamton closes his eyes as the weight of embarrassment and shame descends. “... Yea.”

There’s an awkward silence broken only by their heavy breathing. What was nirvana seconds ago is now a nightmare.

He masturbated to his boss…

With his boss…

What now?

He curls in on himself. Wishing he were beyond the boarded window. Isolated. Forgotten.

"I'm sorry..."

“It’s ok,” Emil reassures, his composure regained for the most part.

“No,” Spamton shakes his head, "I shouldn’t have made you -”

“You didn’t make me do anything. Besides, I’d be lying if I said I haven't -" Emil pauses. "If I said I haven’t done this before...” he swallows. “Thinking of you, that is...”

Spamton blinks. “... Really?”

“Yea,” Emil confirms with a sheepish chuckle. “Like I said, you’re handsome. I like being around you; a lot.”

Spamton opens his mouth then closes it. He snugs the coil to his chest, returning his attention to the boarded window. “That’s - nice.”

“Yea?” Emil asks with uncertainty, aware of Spamton’s stilted compliment.

“I’m sorry, it’s just - I didn’t think...” he blushes. “I'm not used to this. Even when I was a mailman, people stared at me. When I'd wave they’d close their blinds." He smiles, and an uneasy chuckle seeps from him as a thought comes to mind and he furrows his brow. Before Emil can reply, Spamton asks, “what do we do now?”

“I don’t know...” Emil responds.

“Do - we go back to normal? At work and…” Spamton trails off as a tightness clamps around his throat.

“I’ll do whatever makes you comfortable and doesn’t compromise your job,” Emil asserts.

“I’m sorry…”

“No, Spamton, no. I - this was me. I decided this; you didn’t force me -”

“But your job -”

“Will be fine. You work downstairs and I only do check-ins. No on will notice. Nothing has to change."

Nothing has to change.

"... But it has," Spamton mutters.

"... Yea," Emil responds with a flat affect. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yea. Goodnight."

"Goodnight.”

There’s a muffled sound of Emil hanging up. Spamton sits on the other end as the dial tone plays, gazing upon the boarded window outside. There are no thoughts, no awareness, or reaction to the stimuli around him. Just a vacant stare and the dial tone.

He hangs up the receiver and cleans up before pulling out his fold out. Aged coils creak as he descends, looking up at the ceiling. He glances at his rotary phone. The light from the street illuminates it alongside the boarded window. He continues to stare at it until everything becomes dark.

Notes:

Thanks for the kudos and bookmarks, everyone!

As always, prior chapters have had any formatting issues or typos revised. The same will be done for this one too. Whatever mistakes are in this chapter are hopefully minimal lol.

Chapter 5

A click emanates in the still morning air. Spamton rises, his hand rescinding from his alarm clock before it can sound. It's 3:30am.

Spamton didn’t get a wink. Brief moments of reprieve as he slept shattered from pangs of anxiety. Like the pendulum on a clock, they were consistent throughout the night. Whatever dreams may have been eroded from memory. Considering the consternation the night prior such amnesia was a gift. Worse still, he may have been sleepwalking…

All that remains is the lingering shame that he and his boss masturbated to one another. Invasive thoughts of a thrill gone by repulse him as does the knowledge they'd see each other today.

He’s a freak.

A pathetic, perverted, and malformed freak.

Calling in sick sprints by as an option, but he ignores it. Although he'd never taken a sick day in his life and could by policy, he was treading thin ice. He can't afford to be further seen as an incompetent and weak worker.

He rises, dresses, proceeds to the bathroom, and brushes his teeth. His appetite is absent. Packing a lunch would be useless too. Besides, the salami is in a questionable state... It’s best to clock in as many hours as he can, then head home for the day. Hopefully, the exhaustion will take its toll, and he'll sleep the weekend away. Forget everything.

He’ll be there, Spamton ruminates, turning off the faucet. They'll have to talk... Feathers stand on end at the idea. He bites his lip attempting to redirect the oncoming panic. After a moment it subsidies enough for him to exit the bathroom without shame.

He grabs his keys, opens the door, and leaves.

Nothing has to change.

☎

It's half past five. Despite arriving early with no one else present, Spamton stands stricken. The building is small to moderate in size, but now it sits before him like a stronghold.

Most businesses in Cyber City never close, but even the hardest working addisons need sleep and is given that. Yet, it isn’t uncommon for addisons to sneak in early to boost their earnings and reputation. It's not frowned upon.

Addisons with set salaries, like himself, are economic boons. Who cares if they work overtime? It's a neutral, sometimes positive concept since success and sales are every addison’s goal. Why deny an opportunity that could lead to promotion? But for them, it’s a privilege. Most are successful within a nine-to-five model and see overtime as a bonus. They can manipulate their drive for a finite time and then relax. And Spamton knows he is anything but normal...

He pulls a card key from his wallet and holds it against the scanner. A click sounds, and the door opens, allowing him to skitter in.

The scent of old papers and cleaning materials lingers as he passes through the dreary halls. Walking through such a barren building makes Spamton feel like a ghost. It's not always bad, at least in this context. He can make coffee and have a whole pot to himself before anyone arrives. Plus, he doesn’t have to deal with others badgering him to fix the printer while he works.

After a minute of meandering, he makes it to a set of stairs. The paint on the railing flakes apart as his hand slides atop it upon his descent. Feet tread worn steps marked with divots and cracks. He skips a step, one known for its precarious footing until he lands at the bottom with two doors before him.

To his right is a closet with old machines and to his left is an unmarked door. The wood is worn and soft from years of hands and bodies pressing against the frame to open it. He grabs the rusted knob and turns it.

Dim rays of light reveal the meagerness of its interior. There's a comforting melancholy to it. An old computer with paper and coffee cups littering the station. A small filing rack and a stack of boxes. He enters, turning on the table light and his system.

Mechanisms clack as the operating system boots to the password screen. Deft digits slide across the keyboard with swift accord, entering the password. Once greeted by a chipper mascot, the desktop loads and he opens his client list.

Sender blocked.

Torrid pain radiates through his chest. He turns away, slicking back his crest before mustering the might to finish reviewing the list. He scrolls through, scanning it with exhaustive scrutiny. Each flick of his finger lands him on the status of a client. The weight skewered within him twists deeper.

He minimizes the window with haste, turning his attention to emails. Nervous eyes scan through each one until coming across one from the editing department.

It’s marked urgent.

The searing ache crippling his concentration goes cold. He licks his lips, clicking the mouse.

Client reviewed the latest revision for Nubi Foot Pads!™. They’re requesting several changes concerning the body copy and slogan. They feel as though your pass doesn’t reflect their brand’s intent and are providing their own. Please see the attached document containing the new specs for the body copy to incorporate into the ad. The customer requires the revised file to be sent by noon. Moving forward, this product will be assigned to…

Trembling hands creep under his glasses until they cover his eyes. A pained mewl seeps through gritted teeth becoming lost in the clicks and whirs of his computer. He's stricken. Neither crying nor reacting in anger. He slumps into the inescapable reality that is.

The shadow of failure presses itself atop him. He can't breathe. It whispers in his ear, molesting every fiber of his will. Invading him like rot. He feels ill, but there’s nothing to dispel. There's nothing to dispel because he is the rot. It’s all he’s ever been. Every attempt a failure. Every turn a dead end. He descends deeper and deeper into the abyss of his mind. Drowning. Suffocating. Awareness dims within the roots of despair when -

He yelps. Wheels clack against the uneven tile as he thrusts back in his chair clenching the desk.

It’s Emil. Startled breaths fill the space between them. His hand is withdrawn and his expression is full of unease.

Spamton gulps, gasping as though breaching the surface as he clenches his chest. “What are you doing here?”

Emil furrows his brow. “What do you mean? I’m - here for the morning check-in,” he answers with a raspy reply.

Spamton squints in preparation to retort when he checks the clock on his monitor. “Shit…” he seethes, returning his attention to the computer.

“Is everything ok?” Emil asks.

“It's fine.” Spamton spurts.

“Wh - Hey -”

“I said everything’s fine. I’m fine,” Spamton interjects with fevered pants. He rereads the email running both hands through his crest as he lowers his head.

“S-”

“I said I’m fine!”

Spamton stares at the keyboard, shaking. The sound of Emil receding and then the click of the door make him tense. A sharp breath sprints from tense lungs upon hearing the footsteps return.

“Look at me,” Emil urges. Spamton shakes his head causing Emil to lean into his line of peripheral sight. “… Please…” he begs; his breath caressing Spamton’s ear, indicating he's kneeled beside him.

A stinging sensation pricks at Spamtons eyes. He shakes his head again.

“What's going on?” Emil emplores. “You're shaking...” After a prolonged pause, Emil whispers, “if it's about work or...” he swallows, “... about last night - we can talk about it. I locked the door.” Silence. “... Spamton?” Emil leans in closer causing Spamton to collapse further in on himself. He pulls back. “I'm sorry," he concedes. “I’ll - I'll check on the rest of the team. If you need anything, call me, ok? Or email.” He suggests, his voice cracking. After no response, Emil exhales and stands. The soft clack of heels breaks the tension as they press against aged and worn tile. The door opens and closes with scarcely a sound. Once Emil's footsteps are no longer audible, Spamton breaks down.

☎

“Emil… Emil… Hey -”

Emil flinches, dropping his pen and turning to his right. A male yellow addison looks at him with bewilderment. “Everything ok?”

“Yea, uh-” Emil glances at his desk and computer, trying to recall what he was doing. “I’m just - I - didn’t get much sleep,” he smiles, tapping the desk with his forefinger.

“Yea, I know what you mean,” the yellow addison chuffs. “Wife n’ I have been taken shifts with the new one.”

“Oh yea,” Emil livens up. “How’s that going?”

“Eh, can’t complain, but being a dad’s a whole new territory. I thought being a supervisor would give me an edge. Nah. Doesn’t prepare you for jack all,” the yellow addison laughs. “Except for no sleep and exhausting rotations… Speaking of which - you give, uh…”

“Spamton?”

“Yea - wait - no… Rider; did you give Rider the Nubi Foot Pads!™ account for Monday?”

Emil’s smile drops. “Yea.”

“Great,” the yellow addison snaps his fingers, turning them into thumbs up. “They need something to print promos Monday after next.”

“Spruce - I know you want her to finish the account once Spamton does the copy pass but - that's a d-stack product. Can't he handle it?”

Spruce purses his lips, rubbing the back of his neck. “Emil, he’s had that account for two weeks.”

“Yea, but - those guys? They never care about d-stacks; I mean -”

“I know but I copied you in the emails. They're not happy with his work.”

Emil licks his lower lip, turning his chair. “But -”

“Look,” Spruce cuts in with a stern gesture of his hand. “We’re giving him until next quarter like you wanted. He’s on d-stack. If he can’t handle d-stack we'll have to put him on f.” When Emil looks dissatisfied, Spruce continues. “At least he’s not on routes like before. Well - between that and f-stack it’s not like there's a difference… Could you imagine seeing him out your window?” he sneers. “Should name himself ‘Spookton’ during -”

Emil glowers, causing Spruce to back off. “I think they’re overthinking the body copy…” he mutters.

“Like I said, I agree. D-stack's dogshit. But if we’re being honest Spamton's stuff is -"

"Fine." Emil asserts.

Spruce smirks rolling his eyes.

“If you agree it’s a bad product they don’t care about that - no one cares about; then - keep him on it.”

“Our job is to help them sell their products, Emil. They make money, we make money. They keep their jobs, we keep ours,” Spruce counters, leaning in with a cocked head and a sharp glare. "Got that?"

“I know I’m just -”

“I owed you one. But I can’t put my job on the line a second time on account of him. Especially not now. If he doesn’t make the cut, he doesn’t make the cut. And I'm telling you, as your supervisor, cut it out."

Emil stiffens, casting his gaze aside. “Yes sir...”

Spruce sighs. “I know you're tryin' to help. It's what makes you a great team lead. You can't save them all though.”

Emil retains his attention on his desk.

Spruce pats Emil on the shoulder, turning to leave then glances back. “Oh yea; printer’s busted again. At least he’s good at handlin’ that,” he smirks, turning and taking leave.

☎

The whir and clicks of computer mechanisms come to an abrupt stop.

Listless ruby eyes gaze at the black screen before them. Despite the dim lighting, Spamton detects a vague reflection. Within that pale matte visage, there is no one of interest.

He hasn't left his desk since Emil stopped by that morning. Nor did Emil check in on him during the afternoon shift. Unusual, but understandable considering what transpired last night...

Spamton winces. The last he ate was before bed and that was a cup of milk. Now he's paying the price with a headache and upset stomach. He sets his hand on the table, attempting to rise, but weak knees buckle. He plops back down into the dilapidated chair, its coils moaning from his sudden descent. He groans from the mild pain until recalling a chocolate bar stashed in the corner of his desk. Chocolate isn't his fancy, but it's sweet. Better still, it was a gift from Emil honoring his promotion to the advertising department the day they met. It's likely expired, but Spamton has a strange way of holding onto things. He feels that if he finishes the bar in one go the memory of that gift would be gone. To make it last, he uses pieces of it in his coffee here and there. It's tastier that way. Giving the brew a creamy thickness while masking the cheapness of the texture and flavor.

Spamton rummages for the partly eaten bar, pushing aside crumpled paper and office supplies before finding it. He licks the residue chocolate off the wrapper as he removes the excess to get to the meager offering. It's small, no bigger than a sugar packet, and visibly aged. A white film covers the surface of the chocolate. He dumps the remains into his mouth. Gulping down poorly chewed chunks while sprawled in his chair like a ragdoll.

There’s a knock at the door.

“If you’re the new janitor, cleaning closet is on the main floor…” Spamton mumbles, flopping his head back and throwing the empty wrapper onto his table.

“It’s Emil.”

Spamton springs forward, pressing his hand against his throat, suppressing a cough.

“Can - I come in?”

Shit...

“If you want me to, say 'yes'. But if you don’t want me to, I’ll -”

“Come in,” Spamton blurts while coughing.

Shit…

The door creaks open and a sliver of light floods the room. Spamton diverts his gaze to the monitor to feign working, but it feels off. Shit shit shit... He remains still as though he is a hare cornered by a hound unsure of what to do. The latch makes a sharp click as the door closes, causing him to flinch. His heart races. He feels like he’s going to puke.

Emil doesn’t approach, judging from the lack of footsteps.

“What are you doing here?” Spamton mutters, on edge from Emil's presence and silence. Bile brews in his meagerly fed stomach, causing him to gag.

“I wanted to check up on you.”

“It’s late.”

A hushed laugh peaks through the restlessness choking the air before it's strangled by it. “That means I can’t check up on you?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I stayed late," Emil clarifies, taking a step forward. After a pause he adds, “I’m concerned about you.”

“There's nothing to be concerned about...” Spamton asserts.

“Yes there is,” Emil returns. “I - no one saw you get coffee today,” He titters, desperate to break through the tension. "One of many."

Spamton remains mute.

“... Did you even have lunch or coffee?”

“No,” Spamton concedes, his shoulders tensing. “Had to finish my account so Rider can handle it.”

“Spamton, I'm sorry,” Emil sighs with a submissive tone.

“Yea.”

“I -” feet shuffle against the ground. “What do you want me to say?”

“There's nothing to say. You were copied in the email…”

“... That wasn’t my decision.”

“I know…”

“Spamton -”

“Look, we've both had a long day; let's call it a night and head home.”

“I can't let you do that. I -”

“There's nothing to talk about, Emil,” Spamton repeats. Fevered hands adjust items on the desk, but none move in a meaningful manner.

“Come on” Emil attempts to placate with a friendlier tone. “It's Friday. You don't want to go home and -”

“I'm fine,” Spamton spits through hilted breaths. “I'm not - Rider's got the account.”

“Spamton -”

“She does good work,” Spamton reasons, trying to persuade himself more than Emil. His head bobs at a frenetic pace. Trembling hands skitter atop the table as they continue shuffling objects, knocking over a cup of pens. He clasps them, thrusting them back into the cup. “It's fine. It’ll let me -”

“This isn't about the account,” Emil interjects with impatience.

“Great!” Spamton shouts. “We can both go home then!” With nothing else to tinker with, he runs a hand through his crest causing a few down feathers to fall out.

Emil takes another step forward, or backward. Spamton's not sure. He's too hysterical to discern.

“I'm not leaving.”

Spamton grits his teeth. “Please...” he begs.

“No. We have to talk,” Emil swallows vying to remain calm. “About last night, I -”

“You were drunk and I was tired,” Spamton argues, his voice breaking. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There is,” Emil declares with distress. “You’re shaking and pulling out feathers. You haven’t eaten or slept by the looks of it. And - you won't even look at me. Please, I’m -”

“Fine,” Spamton snarls. “I'm embarrassed - I’m confused and I’m scared... Happy?”

“... About what?”

“Really...” Spamton's voice breaks as he throws up his hands resting his forehead between them.

“I'm serious...” Emil proclaims. "About me? About - about work? About -”

“Everything…” Spamtgon wimpers in frustration.

A foot pivots against the ground, pauses, then proceeds forward until Emil’s beside Spamton kneeling. “I meant everything I said last night.”

“That doesn't fix anything...” Spamton challenges fighting to maintain a level of composure.

“I know,” Emil agrees with a shaky voice, leaning in closer. “I'm scared too. Scared I hurt you... I put you in a shitty situation. I’m ashamed I did that. I'm your boss; what I did is inexcusable. I... care about you and -” he swallows. “I'm sorry I did this...”

Spamton opens his mouth, closes it, then takes off his glasses, pressing his hands against his eyes. After what feels like an eternity, he speaks. “You're my friend, Emil... I don’t want to lose -” you. “... That. I can't....”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

"What are we supposed to do..." Spamton whispers through broken breaths.

“... It’ll take time but -” Emil stalls recollecting his thoughts. “Spruce and I - you’d say we get along, right?”

Spamton shakes his head and shrugs.

“Yea. You don’t see him much… Trigger - he and I don’t always see eye to eye. We have our bouts. But we patch things in the end. It's uncomfortable, stressful even but - eventually, things go back to normal. We go out, drink a little, and have fun. Those bad moments are moments. They go away if you work through it and give it time.”

“Then you two fight again.”

There's a detectable hitch in Emil's breathing. “What?”

“Last night when I came back to the table, everyone was acting weird. The last couple of nights I've been out with you guys I've noticed it. Even before last night... You get antsy when we're all together. I - do too.”

“Yea, we - argued,” Emil deflects with a strained laugh. “Like I said, it -”

“Even when they’re not there and it’s just us at the bar...” Spamton continues, straining to swallow, his voice breaking. “I feel weird, like -”

“... Spamton -”

“I've had thoughts,” Spamton persists as though in a trance. “Even before last night, I've had thoughts. I ignored them because you're my boss.” He knits his brow. “But they never went away.” A sour expression scratches itself upon mouth as he forces himself to speak. “I egged you on... Part of me hoped you were lying or... Being nice. You're nice to everyone. I hoped you’d be grossed out - hang up the phone. That would’ve been easier. I’m used to that. But even when you told me to stop I knew you didn't want me to. Neither of us did... Do you really think that'll go away?” His brow furrows as ruby eyes dart Emil's way, focused in a manner that gives him pause. "Do you want it to?”

Emil doesn’t respond. Spamton can't quite make him out from his periphery, but he doesn't have to. His silence says all he needs to know.

They linger in their unfortunate circumstance until Spamton can’t take it anymore. He rises to leave, collapsing atop the table.

“Hey!” Emil exclaims, rising and catching Spamton by the arm as a few pens fall to the ground. “Hey,” he calls again, but he’s too weary to respond.

Warm, soft fingers cup Spamton's chin, turning his head to Emil's line of sight. Violet-blue eyes laden with anguish meet his own. His lips are parted. The whites of his teeth and pink of his tongue are visible through the sliver as sharp shaken breaths caress him. Spamton turns away, uncomfortable with such proximity.

“I’m fine,” Spamton murmurs, barely comprehensible. He attempts to stand again but falls back.

“Stop saying you’re fine when you’re not…” Emil demands, picking him up. He attempts to put Spamton’s arm around his shoulder, but he’s too tall.

Without a second’s hesitation, Spamton feels himself hoisted off the ground.

“Whataru’ doin’?” Spamton slurs. He tenses, straining to get down, but he hasn’t the strength.

“I’m getting you to a hospital,” Emil replies, clumsily opening the door with his occupied hand.

“I’m not dyin’, Emil. I just have low blood sugar.”

“I don’t care,” Emil retorts as they make their way up the stairs.

“I’m serious, I don’t - need a doctor. Just food...”

“Ok...” Emil submits. “What do you want? Are you allergic to anything?”

“No…” Spamton slurs. The sway of Emil’s arms as they ascend the stairs lulls him into a stupor. He closes his eyes and goes lax, submitting to the warm, firm embrace. “I’m not…”

Chapter 6

The smooth hum of an air conditioner along with unfamiliar scents cause Spamton to stir. He’s sitting atop something plush and comfortable. Very comfortable compared to his foldout. Toasty too.

This bed isn't his. He's dreaming. Furnishings such as this are luxuries he can only dream of - literally, but they're not uncommon. He'd laid on a bed such as this one at a store once. Sucumming to its soothing surface before being asked to buy something or leave. He wishes he could buy a bed such as this, but his finances, despite tight budgeting, are stagnant. Oh well, at least he can dream.

He opens his eyes, wincing as they adjust to the light seeping in from the window. It's brighter than what he's used to.

The room appears to be an apartment with modest furnishings. Modest yet far above his concerning quality. He continues surveying the scenery when something shiny catches his eye.

It’s a plate. Remnants of what seem to be dumplings and cucumbers litter the surface. There’s an empty glass with water residue and a few napkins. They sit atop a mahogany coffee table. In front of the table is a TV atop a cabinet with a few knickknacks and a clock. Houseplants decorate the sides with an abstract picture hanging on the wall between them. Below his feet is a rug as soft as cotton. The scents of fresh linens and dumplings linger in the air, putting him at ease.

Strange... His dream house is usually located in the heart of Cyber City. That's where anybody who’s somebody resides. Addisons such as Banner and - to his chagrin, Trigger. This place, while still within his fancy, is humble. He's seen enough interiors to know this was someone of middle income. Yet, to his surprise, he prefers this. It’s cozy. Welcoming.

Spamton yawns, stretching with such force his back cracks. He licks his lips free of debris as he rises to peruse the place.

There’s nothing too impressive although he's surprised to find he was sleeping on a couch, not a bed. A lamp sits to its left and a small side table to its right. The living room is far bigger than his own. To the TV’s left is a door, likely a closet. To the TV's right a shallow hallway, likely leading to the bedroom. He’ll have to check that out later. Behind him is the main door indicated by an umbrella holder and a key and coat rack with another closet. To his right is the kitchen judging from a cupboard peeking around the corner and oven mitts hanging its side. Nice place, he observes with a smile. It’s then he notices an item that seems amiss.

Despite the poor lighting, Spamton can make out the silhouette of a cherrywood acoustic piano.

Odd…

Although he's not one for music, he understands it's a widow into the soul. What someone is going through more or less. It’s this display of such intimacy that makes Spamton abstain from consuming it. Rarely is he happy, so pop is more irritating than fun. Nor does he find solace in somber melodies. He has enough melancholy as it is. Rock and metal are completely against his interests; they spike his anxiety. Yet jingles strike his fancy. There are several toe-tapping tunes he hums when there is pep in his step.

But that doesn't explain the piano.

His dream house was just that - a floorplan of his wants and needs. An acoustic piano of all things is not on his list. In fact, it's all off. The modesty, the piano - why?

Despite his curiosity to tinker with the instrument, Spamton is a stickler for decency. Much to his chagrin, he finds it hard to break his neurosis, even in the realm of fantasy. Yet - he is alone. Maybe this is one of his rare liminal dreams. Those dreams where everything's a metaphor for something in real life.

They go away if you work through it.

Where has he heard that? Spamton ruminates as he observes the piano.

Maybe the apartment is a new, more modest want, and the piano his need to explore beyond his comforts?

Either way he's here. What's the harm? If weary residents rise to rant their resentment, the shock of it will wake him like it usually does. Conflict averted.

He pulls out the bench and sits. Petite fingers brush atop ivory keys. There’s a thin layer of dust but nothing one would consider messy. A note carries in the relative silence as he presses a key. Not too loud, not too light, just right. He presses another. Its pitch is deeper, almost foreboding. Well, if that’s the deepest key and the one closer to the middle was moderate, the one on the furthest end must be high. He reaches toward the right end of the keyboard and hesitates. Why is he hesitating? This is his dream. He presses the key. It’s high, but to his wonder, not loud by comparison. Interesting…

A momentary sadness stings him. If only he knew how to play; then he could perform a jingle or two. But - maybe he doesn't need to know how to play. He doesn't have to care. This is within the confines of himself alone. A brief moment soon to be a vague memory. There’s no one to shame him. Mock or belittle whatever lousy performance he tries. What better place and time than now?

Spamton shoulders relax as he exhales to refocus. He presses a key. Then another. And another. A chuckle or two carries in the air with the notes as he plays. Despite his audible mediocrity, he’s having fun; genuine fun.

Screw it.

He waggles his head and cracks his knuckles; lifting his fingers in the air and striking a dramatic pose. Down they plummet. A cornucopia of sound fills the air as sour as curdled milk. But he doesn't care. He laughs; surprised at a few makeshift measures that sound close to something serene. Maybe even a jaunty. Fingers slide across the keyboard. A claw or two get caught against the ebony keys and cracks therein, but he resumes with gusto. A broad smile spreads itself across his snowy facade; jubilant of his bluster when something clasps his shoulder.

He thrusts back, bumping up against something or - someone. A shrill yelp cracks from his lungs. Claws swipe at the assailant. He spins and trips, knocking aside the stool. A calamitous clamor shatters the still air as he catches himself atop the keyboard. A mild pain spreads throughout his shoulders. He thrashes to get away but is pulled forward with such force and power he can't.

“Spamton!” a voice hisses. The heat of his breath steams Spamton's face like a furnace from his proximity. “Calm down!” When Spamton doesn't, the voice continues. “Spamton, it's me -”

Spamton stiffens. He leans back with his shoulders raised as he peaks through an eye. “… Emil?”

A loud bang reverberates through the floor. “It’s four in the morning!” shouts someone downstairs.

Emil tenses upon the neighbor's condemnation. Spamton winces as Emil’s claws dig deeper. Once the moment passes, Emil releases him.

Spamton, shaken from the altercation, backs up like a cornered animal. He wakes up when something bad happens more often than not... Why isn't he waking up... “Emil?” he calls out again, his head hung low and eyes closed.

“Yea,” Emil responds breathlessly. “It's me.”

Spamton peaks upward, still terrified to acknowledge him, but when he sees Emil lean into his line of sight. He swivels back down, clenching his chest.

“I - uh… It's early,” Emil mumbles, unsure of what to say and still drowsy. “Why were you playing my piano?”

Wake up... Spamton begs himself. Wake up! “Because - I'm dreaming,” he reasons with hesitance, perturbed that he isn’t waking up.

“This isn’t a dream… Do you sleepwalk?” Emil inquires with serious concern.

Spamton gives a stiff shake of the head. "No... Where am I?”

“You’re at my place.”

“… What?”

“You - don't remember?”

“No. I - what - what are you talking about?”

“You… Passed out at work. I offered to take you to the hospital, but you told me not to,” Emil explains. “You said you had low blood sugar so I went to get you food. But you fell asleep - I didn’t know what you wanted so…” Spamton makes out the sound of Emil shuffling his feet. “... I brought you to my place,” Emil audibly swallows. “I didn’t know where you lived.” After a pause he adds, “I figured I’d leave out some leftovers. Drive you back once you woke and ate but you’re a heavy sleeper, I guess.” He laughs although it’s tense. “Looks like you ate though.”

No. This is still a dream. Has to be. No way this is happening... Yet… He vaguely recalls them fighting… That he was exhausted… But passing out and being brought here? Doesn't ring a bell. And middle class or not, there's no way Emil could afford a piano. It’s a piano. Well, if he's not waking up, he might as well play into - whatever's happening...

Spamton slicks back his crest as he calms a little. “… You brought me up the stairs…”

“Yea…” Emil replies, concerned by Spamton’s shift in demeanor. “You're not heavy at all. Especially when you haven’t eaten,” he jests trying to lighten the mood.

Spamton smirks as he studies Emil, but his smirk soon vanishes. Emil’s wearing long sleeping pants and - nothing else… He’s fit. Very fit. And due to his incredibly short stature, Spamton can't help but look at attributes he otherwise shouldn’t…

A lump builds up in Spamton’s throat as heat ignites in his core. Is this… An erotic dream? He’s never had erotic dreams about Emil or anyone for that matter. This is strange… All so strange. But he is dreaming... Right?

Spamton hesitates for a moment, unsure of what to do. Maybe… Maybe he has to… Engage? He adjusts his foggy glasses and swallows. “This is a first for me.”

“… What is?” Emil asks.

“This,” Spamton gestures, taking a closer look. He steps forward. The fabric of his pants rubs against his groin, causing him to tense. “I could -” his breathing hitches. He's still timid despite this all being in his head. “I could get used to this,” he tells himself more than Emil. He approaches, causing Emil to step back and knock against the lamp.

Emil steadies the lamp as he retains his focus on Spamton. “What are you doing?”

“I’m working through things,” Spamton asserts. “I think…” He takes another step forward.

“I know you said you don’t sleepwalk, but w-whatever you think is going on, this - this isn’t a dream,” Emil protests, his breathing escalating.

“Of course it is,” Spamton sneers, desperate to make sense of what’s happening. “As if you'd carry me up a flight of stairs to your apartment like I was a damsel in distress. That's some corny crap only I'd think of…” He takes another awkward step forward, reaching for the seam of Emil's pants with reluctance.

A flurry of thoughts dizzies him. What if Emil doesn't want this? What if he does? What does this mean? What does he do? Is he a pervert? What if he's not dreaming? What will he do when -

The thoughts blinding his awareness crash to a halt as a throbbing sensation radiates from his wrist. Emil's clasping his arm. Spamton tries to retract, but Emil clamps harder, causing Spamton to wince.

“We should go back to bed...” Emil demands with acute clarity.

“Ok,” Spamton chuffs in submission, but when a minute or so passes, the horrid reality becomes clear.

His smile evaporates and he goes still. He looks up at Emil who lets go. Spamton stumbles back, his hands are trembling. Eyes clasp shut as claws dig into the sides of his head. “Shit..." They piece deeper into his temple as he clenches his teeth. “Emil - I’m so sorry… I thought - ...”

“It's ok -” Emil sighs. “I -”

“No... It's not ok... Shit...” he mewls, turning away.

“You didn't know.”

“Doesn't matter,” Spamton hyperventilates.

“I'm not mad, ok? You didn’t do anything wrong,” Emil attempts to reassure although it's clear he's still shaken.

“Yes I did…”

“No, you didn’t. You’re exhausted and confused. I’ve done my fair share of crazy crap too. How - how about we go back to bed? We’ll talk in the morning, ok?”

Spamton, his posture unchanging, gives a stiff nod.

Emil turns to leave then stops. “Bathroom’s to the left before my bedroom in case you need it. Knock if you need anything.”

Spamton gives another brief nod. The overwhelming urge to run, explain himself, break down - all of it blurs into static. He can sense Emil still standing behind him with the urge to comfort him. But knowing this is because he’s so messed up burdens Spamton with immense guilt and shame. And he knows this is why Emil yields, despite what Emil’s conscience compels him to do.

Eventually, Emil leaves, although his gait is audibly stilted.

As the bedroom door shuts, Spamton gasps. He quakes, staring beyond the present until the panic ebbs and he returns to the couch. He lingers there slouched in a comatose state with a vague awareness of his hazy reflection on the TV. His body soon relents to the weight of it all. He curls into a tight ball in the corner with the blanket shrouding him, plunging into darkness.

☎

A warm glow peaks through parted lashes as Spamton awakens. The unmistakable aroma of rice, salmon, and eggs fills the air. He sits up wiping his eyes. Yup. He isn’t dreaming this time…

“You’re up,” Emil acknowledges from what sounds to be the kitchen. His tone is far more relaxed compared to last night.

“Yea,” Spamton returns, wanting to turn and give a proper greeting, but refraining. The embarrassment of last night binds him. The last thing he needs to do is work through things…

“Sleep ok? Hope the couch wasn’t too bad.”

“Yea,” Spamton reassures, rubbing the side of his face. “Compared to mine it’s like sleeping on a water bed,” he strains, attempting to match Emil’s energy and not be too curt.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Emil laughs as though nothing has changed while turning off the stove. Plates and utensils clatter as he adds the finishing touches.

Spamton, ever aware, stands up, forcing himself to face Emil. But can only make out glimpses of what appears to be his shoulder as he moves about. He should sit back down. Not make a fuss of things, but the urge to compensate for his mishaps nips at him. “I can help.”

“I got this.” Emil exits the kitchen carrying two plates. He’s still wearing the pants from last night, but now he's also wearing a long-sleeved tee. “Wanna’ sit on the couch and eat or at the dining table?” He gestures with his head, indicating the table behind the couch.

“Uh - table,” Spamton suggests with a crack in his voice. He blushes, straining to maintain eye contact. He would’ve chosen the couch, but that feels too intimate given the circumstances. But upon glancing at the size of the table and seeing they’ll be sitting across from one another, he may have made a mistake. He opens his mouth to suggest the couch but stops. He’s made his decision.

Emil places the plates on the respective ends of the petite dining table, then heads back for cups.

Spamton approaches the table with a stiff gait and sits. He hones in on the food before him, desperate to remain calm.

“Hope you don’t mind hōjicha. Should have enough caffeine to prevent a headache at least.”

“'Course not,” Spamton reassures, watching Emil pour him a cup and hand it to him. The tea is amber brown in hue with the rim sporting a gold halo. “It smells sweet. Put something in it?” he asks, staring at the cup.

“No.” Emil cocks his head with curiosity. “Have you ever had hōjicha?”

Spamton shakes his head.

“Well, give it a swig. See if you like it.” Emil encourages as he sits.

Spamton takes a sip. “Wow. This is good.” He takes another sip. “Really good.”

“Glad you like it. Let me know if anything's not to your liking," he requests, gesturing to the food with his chopsticks. "I can make something else.”

“No - no,” Spamton waves in surprise. “This is good, Emil. I mean -”

“You’re my guest,” Emil cuts in with a smile that gives Spamton unease. “If you don’t like it, any of it - let me know. I’ll make something else.”

“This is better than anything I’ve got at home judging from the looks and smell. Not that; I mean -”

“I get it,” Emil chuckles. “No need to explain. Dig in.”

Spamton grabs the chopsticks, taking a bite of rice and egg. “Mmm…” he hums. “This is amazing..."

“That might be the hunger talking,” Emil brushes off. “I’m not that good of a cook. Those dumplings I made a few nights ago were a little burnt on the outside. I had the eye too hot.”

“Wait - you made those?”

“Yea,” Emil confirms, taking a sip of tea.

“They were amazing,” Spamton compliments. “Well, I don’t remember the taste... But if these rice and eggs are anything to go by I’d say you’re a stellar chef.” He takes a bite of the salmon. "Fish too." Spamton chews the food with ravenous haste, then sips his tea. It goes well together much to his surprise. As he sets down his cup, he notices Emil staring at him.

There’s such tenderness and concern in Emil’s eyes it hurts. Such a sincere display strikes humility into Spamton and an encroaching inability to continue ignoring last night... Emil seems to have recalled it too, as they both avert their gaze, eating in silence.

Spamton taps his chopsticks on the plate while mulling over his thoughts. “I wanted to properly apologize for last night.” He gulps down the queasiness building up in his stomach while straining to maintain eye contact. “The fight at the office, you going through all this, and…”

Emil swallows, licking his lips free of food. “I’m team lead, remember? And I'm friends with Trigger,” he jabs with a stilted chuckle as he peaks up from his plate. “It takes more than that to unnerve me.”

“Yea, but also what I did - when I thought I was dreaming.” Spamton expounds, straining to remain calm.

Something flickers in the corner of Emil’s eyes as a taut smile sprints across his lips. “Like I said, we’ve all done crazy things.” He taps his chopsticks on the rim of his plate before continuing to eat.

Spamton returns his attention to his food, but that ever-so-subtle shift in Emil's demeanor gives him unease. He needs resolution. He needs to know where they stand. Should he even mention it? His real feelings about - everything? He moves food bits about the plate before relenting to the pressure. “You didn't hurt me.”

Food falls from Emil's chopsticks. He glances down before returning his attention to Spamton.

“What we did two nights ago…” words sift through quivering lips in a stilted manner as he vies to speak with precision and purpose. “It was - I want… I don’t want that to go away.” He holds his breath until he can’t any longer. Ticks from a clock fill the silence between them. When it becomes too much, Spamton continues. “Do you want that to go away?”

Emil stares at Spamton without moving a muscle. He swallows, causing him to blink rapidly. He licks his lips, looking about absently while tapping the chopsticks on the plate.

Spamton furrows his brow in pain from Emil’s withdrawal. His jaw juts back and forth in taut movements.

“I - that’s a complicated…” Emil sets down his chopsticks, rubbing his forehead.

“I - I know, but -” a stinging sensation buds behind Spamton’s eyes. Fuck… He bites his lip and winces. “I’ve been thinking about it and -”

“We can’t.”

A foreboding silence chokes whatever warmth was between them.

“I know - I know you’re my boss, but…” Spamton gulps, taking the plunge. “Why should that stop us?”

Emil sighs, straining to maintain composure. “Because I’m your boss…”

“Yea, but -”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

“Our entire relationship’s been nothing but a conflict of interest, Emil,” he counters.

Emil squints in confusion with a trace of disgust. “What?”

“You’re always begging me to go to the bar with you and staying late after check-ins just to chat. The way you lean on my desk? Smile at me?”

That last remark shifts Emil's demeanor, but Spamton pushes on. “We crossed so many lines. What’s one more?”

“We work together. I'm your boss…”

“Emil. No one there knows I exist beyond fixing the printer. No one even sees us together at work or outside of it. There's no way I'm getting promoted anytime soon. My sales are so deep in the gutter no amount of help will fish them out. Not even if I wanted that. Fuck; I - it’s like I don’t even work there. I just fix the printer…”

“None of that matters.”

“Then -”

“I can't... I'm -” Emil taps the table with his forefinger and thumb with such force the surface vibrates.

“You can’t or you won’t?” Spamton demands to know.

“I said I can’t, Spamton…”

“So you would if you could?”

Emil leans back. His bottom lip furls inward and he licks the top of it, turning his attention to the door. “... I should take you home.”

“It’s a 'yes' or 'no' answer, Emil…” Spamton reframes, setting down his chopsticks. “You said you’d do whatever would make me comfortable. Not knowing is making me uncomfortable.” Spamton waits for Emil to speak before pressing on, “you said you meant everything -”

Emil winces. “This is different and you know it.”

“So you lied?” Spamton’s voice cracks.

Violet-blue eyes strike themselves upon Spamton. “Don't put words in my mouth..."

“Then what is it?” Spamton demands to know with a cutting tone.

“I need to take you home…” Emil reiterates, wiping his forehead. “You're tired.”

“I'm not tired, Emil... What about what you said, on the phone and in the office? You said -”

“We’re done talking about this,” Emil averts as he stands. There’s a noticeable ire in his remark.

“You said I could talk to you about anything.” Spamton condemns. “That you meant every word...”

Emil starts toward the door.

“No.” Spamton rises, blocking Emil's path. “You’re always going, ‘hey.’ Cutting me off; telling me what to think or do even when I don’t want to or can’t. And the moment I make you uncomfortable - really uncomfortable, you wanna’ run. You told me to work through this. This is me working through it.”

“It's only been two days; you haven't thought anything through...”

“I haven't?” Spamton huffs in indignation. “All my mind does is think. It never shuts up even when I'm sleeping...”

Emil remains silent, maintaining his attention to the floor.

“I need to know, Emil…”

Silence.

“Emil!”

“No!”

Spamton freezes.

“I don’t - I don’t want this…” Emil pants, rubbing his forehead.

The faint ticking of a clock fills the vacuum.

“… Ok,” Spamton whispers, heading to the door.

“Dammit… Spamton -”

“Thanks for the food and for letting me stay,” Spamton murmurs, putting on his shoes.

“Spamton -” Emil runs up behind him, resting his hand on Spamton’s shoulder.

“Stop!” Spamton exclaims, his voice breaking as he spins around, jerking his shoulder back. “Just stop. Everything... The platitudes. The - the; whatever this is.”

“Ok... At least let me drive. I can’t let you walk home.” Emil contends yet cowering at Spamton’s choler. “You live on the opposite side of town.”

“Great...” Spamton spits with a spiteful smile framed by tears. He jostles the door knob like a crazed animal before realizing it’s locked. He unlocks it, ignoring whatever it is Emil's pleading, then exits, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter 7

“Do you know if Emil’s coming tonight?” Popper asks Trigger.

“Nope,” Trigger responds, taking a sip of his drink while scanning the crowd. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he shows though considerin' he’s neck deep in booze again…”

“Hmm,” Popper murmurs with reserved concern. “I’m sure Spamton has to do with his sudden shift.”

“'Course he does,” Trigger scoffs. “Haven’t seen the schizo since we started working for Banner n’ Emil starts tappin’ n’ sippin’ any time you mention him…”

Popper glances at Trigger. Agitation whets Trigger’s already sharpened eyes. He exhales then sips his drink. The heat of his breath steams the glass like a bull itching for a fight. “If you’re thinking about pestering Emil concerning personal affairs, I advise against it…”

“When has that worked for me?” Trigger prods, his eyes still locked on the crowd. “If it weren’t for me we wouldn’t be workin' for Banner, remember?”

Popper leans back with a knitted brow. “You remind me almost daily…” he mutters, taking a sip of sake.

Trigger ignores his friend's snide remark. He squints, honing in on something in the distance. “Goin’ to the bar,” he announces as he stands, pushing his drink to the side. “Need somethin’ smoother than this." Trigger weaves through the crowd like a snake. Head steady and focused on his goal when he spots it. “Decided to get buzzed without us huh, buzzkill?” he condemns, slapping his hand on Emil's shoulder and spinning him around.

“Hey,” Emil acknowledges with a slurred and bewildered response.

“You look like shit, Emil.”

Emil attempts to stand, but slips, catching himself with his right hand on the table to his side. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I’ve uh - it’s been busy…” He strains to smile but buckles to the weight of his stupor as he sits.

Trigger glares at him. Emil’s crest, while not as stylized as most addisons, is unkempt beyond his expected grooming. Wrinkles mark the landscape of his shirt; the first few buttons of which are loose. “How long have you been here?”

Emil only returns a repetitive absent nod and raise of his brow, staring into nothing.

“Gonna’ need you to sober up, Dippy…”

“I’m not drunk,” Emil slurs. “I got here a few minutes ago.”

“Judgin' from the shōchū shots I’d say your time’s off… Gonna’ tell me what’s goin’ on or stare at me with that shit face of yours?”

“I told you I’ve been busy…” Emil mumbles, turning back around.

“What? Doin’ what?” Trigger demands to know, leaning into Emil's line of sight.

“Just a lotta’...” Emil presses a hand against his forehead, straining to think. “Lotta’ summer stuff…” he mumbles. “ Seasonal ads; summer’s comin’ up…”

“Yea; sure is… Speakin’ of bein’ busy - I take it powder puff’s slammed? Haven’t seen him since Popper n’ me got the new gig.”

Emil’s lips tighten as he takes a sip of his drink.

“Hey -” Trigger snaps his fingers upon receiving no remark.

“Yea.”

“Spamton; where is he?”

“Dunno',” Emil shrugs.

“What do you mean 'dunno'? He's your boyfriend.”

“I'm tired of that 'joke,' Trig...” Emil warns, setting his glass down with a thud.

“What?” Trigger sneers. “You're the one at the bar actin' like he's been dumped or -”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Emil snarls, spinning around.

“Hey -” the bartender barks, causing Emil and Trigger to notice the spilled bottle.

“Shit, I'm sorry...” Emil apologizes, clumsily clasping napkins to clean the mess.

“Ok…” Trigger sighs sharply. “Barkeep, close his tab,” he demands, handing the bartender a card. The bartender nods, accepting his request.

“No,” Emil slurs. “I'm -”

Trigger gestures to the barkeep with a shake of his head and hand. The barkeep ignores Emil as he processes the card, returning it to Trigger with a receipt. “I’m gettin' some air. You,” he points at Emil then twists his wrist upward, “up.”

“I’m ok...” Emil waves him off, tapping the side of his glass.

“That wasn't a suggestion,” Trigger scowls. “Up…”

Emil stands, staggering a bit before steadying himself.

“Gimmie’ that,” Trigger snaps, taking the drink from Emil.

“Hey…” Emil frowns. “I paid for that…”

“N' now it's mine...” Trigger derides, tossing back Emil's remaining shot. “Come on,” he demands, grabbing Emil’s wrist and leading him through the crowd.

☎

“Are we allowed to be up here?” Emil asks, shuffling toward Trigger.

“If we're going by safety regulations - no,” Trigger admits, leaning against a ledge gazing out upon Cyber City's horizon. “I'm one of the few people with access up here so don't do anything stupid...”

Emil nods in compliance and proceeds to lean on the same ledge beside Trigger with a haphazard slump.

“So...” Trigger begins with a subdued tone, his golden eyes glistening in the city lights. “What’s goin’ on; n' don’t tell me, ‘oh - work’s busy.’ I know powder puff's got somethin' to do with you bein' blue.”

“It's - not important...” Emil murmurs.

“You're hoverin' between lookin' like I'd hire you for a photo shoot n' throwin' you some change. Don't tell me it's not important.” Trigger derides before returning his attention to the skyline. “Besides, contrary to popular belief, You're - my friend... Crazy I know.”

Emil swallows. He opens his mouth, closes it, then licks his lips. Vacant eyes gaze down at interlocked hands as he taps his right thumb atop the other. He glances at Trigger, who only leans in further into his line of sight. “I did something inappropriate.”

Trigger squints. “What,” he prods. “What - like what? Like, embezzlement or cookin’ books to save the sorry squirt?” he sneers. “That would be impressive. Can’t see you takin’ that kind of -”

“We had phone sex.”

Trigger’s jaw goes slack. He leans back, blinking in disbelief as a small puff of air leaves him.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Emil demands with a taut tone as a moment of clarity overtakes him.

“I won’t.”

“Swear. Not even Popper....”

“Emil, I won’t,” Trigger reassures. “Promise.”

They stare at each other until it overwhelms them and return their attention to the horizon.

A minute or two passes before Trigger pries. “So…” he scratches his chin, sliding his thumb along his jaw then cocking his head to the side. “What caused that to happen?”

Emil shakes his head. “It just - happened. It was a few weeks ago when Banner hired you guys. Spamton was upset when he left so I left him a voicemail out of concern. He called me back and…” Emil trails off then goes mute.

“‘N what?”

“Fill in the blanks," Emil shrugs.

“You don’t just call someone and start havin’ phone sex. What happened?”

Emil leans forward, pressing his interlocked hands against his forehead. “He was freaking out about work and I was trying to comfort him... I went too far.”

“'Too far?'”

“I complimented how he looked,” Emil clarifies. “His character. That kind of stuff...”

“Junjō sugiru... Nothin' wrong with that,” Trigger shrugs with a smirk.

“It is when you're their boss...” Emil retorts. “I told him I liked being around him. I shouldn't have said that...”

“You do though. You invite the lil’ snot every time you get.”

“No, it - he was - ... When I was complimenting him I could hear him.”

“Hear him what?”

Emil shoots Trigger a knowing look before continuing. “He said he liked being around me too and - I said, 'we shouldn't be doing what we were doing.' But neither of us stopped, and -” Emil wrings his hands together while steadying himself. “Yea...”

“Hmm…” Trigger remarks with a curt, almost condescending cadence. “Did you... Like it?”

Emil’s nose furls in disgust.

“Ok, bad phrasing… What I’m getting at is, did you both enjoy the moment?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Emil murmurs with a sigh, shaking his head. “He's short when I stop by and responds mostly through email now.”

“I take it you've tried calling.”

Emil nods. “He won't pick up the phone or answer my messages…”

Trigger inspects Emil's haggard appearance. “I can tell... Also, you didn't answer my question. You guys liked that moment together, right? The -” Trigger mimes a phone to his face.

Emil presses his hands against his lips, answering with a soft nod.

“So why the breakdown?”

“He wanted to take things further.”

Trigger furrows his brow. “And you said 'no'…”

“Of course I did,” Emil retorts in agitation. “I’m his boss…”

"And?" Trigger sighs.

“God… It’s - look; he’s going through a lot. I can’t put him in a worse situation than I already have.”

“'Worse?' You had phone sex and you both liked it. Might as well go for a home run.”

Emil side-eyes Trigger. A light flickers through the haze of inebriation. “He likes me, Trig. He really does I - I won't hurt him.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you already did that too if he's ignoring your calls.”

“I know; I know... I don’t want to make it worse.”

“He’s a grown man; you both are,” Trigger highlights with a tinge of impatience. “Do you wanna’ be with him?” Trigger asks, rubbing his chin.

“It’s not about what I want...”

“Stop takin’ the high road,” Trigger snarls, rolling his eyes. “This isn’t work. You’re not at work. You said he wanted to take things further; you both enjoyed it - go for it.”

“What if it doesn't work out, huh? What then?”

“He works in a closet... If he complains no one will believe him.”

“Oh, and that's a good thing?” Emil mocks with discontent.

“Yea!” Trigger grins, turning to lean his back against the ledge. “You're his superior. You know how many addisons around here fuck their superiors, shit doesn't work out, and no one bats an eye?” he boasts with peculiar complacency. “Most of 'em would rather keep their job than risk it. And god knows Spamton needs his.”

“I'm not other addisons,” Emil glowers. “I'm not going to exploit him...”

“It's not exploitation if you both agree to the terms of service,” Trigger snickers with a wink. “Have a little fun for once; let loose.”

“I’m not you, Trigger!” Emil bellows, snarling and spinning around with such force that Trigger recoils. “I can’t fuck someone on a whim then not feel anything after. Pretend like nothing happened, break their heart or - or call...” Emil's jaw trembles upon catching himself. Shaken hands glide through his crest as he turns away.

Trigger swallows, rattled by the outburst. They stand silent amongst the sea of lights. Neither approaches the other as the faint sound of the nightlife breaks through the tension.

“Yea,” Trigger admits upon recollecting himself.

Emil remains unresponsive, back turned and hunched. His arms wrapped around himself in a hugging clasp.

“You know,” Trigger continues, “as someone who's a certified asshole - most addison's they...” he looks down, striking his chin. “They care when it's convenient. Are kind when it's opportune. I know my opinion means little to you right now but, Spamton's just about the most inconvenient person I know. Drives me nuts... But - you like him n', I'd be lying if I said - objectively, there was nothing good to like about him. Especially, when it comes to how he views you.”

“What?” Emil asks with a tired tone, his head still bowed and back turned.

“He looks up to you, Emil. Literally and figuratively. He's a neurotic mess sure but, there's a reason I fuck around and say he's your boyfriend. He lights up when you enter a room. You both do. It's that kind of smarmy shit marketing makes me milk if I was on set. ‘Specially for the holidays... But -” He shifts his weight, looking down. “It's real. I see it. You two try to hide it, but it’s kinda’... sweet. Diabetically so…”

“I’m his boss, Trigger… If it doesn’t work out, that could cost him his job. And I can’t -” Emil stops himself.

“I get it, you're his boss. You've told me that three times now. Woopty-fuckin'-doo, boo hoo, what'll you do?"

“I -”

“Emil... Addisons lose jobs all the time. Jobs come and go. He'll find something if this doesn't work out and, hey -” Trigger claps with condescending enthusiasm. “Think of it as the key to your chastity belt.”

Emil shuffles his feet as claws dig into his shoulders. “He told me he doesn’t want to lose me...”

Trigger furrows his brow, opens his mouth, then closes it. Shoulders go slack as he sighs, letting go of all pretenses. “Yea, but... Sometimes you do. And -” Trigger steps forward, then back; crossing his arms.

“God…” Emil whispers. “I’m fucking stupid…”

“You're not stupid…” Trigger emphasizes with rare benevolence. “You’re scared and drunk. You're -” Trigger swallows, striking his jaw with his claw.

Emil returns to the ledge resting his head between his crossed arms.

“Talk to him after work.”

“I can’t…”

“I said talk to him,” Trigger demands.

“I already told him no.”

“And you didn’t mean it.”

“I did,” Emil’s voice breaks as he grimaces.

“No you fucking didn't. If you weren't his boss and didn't have sad sack of shit syndrome you'd be at his place right now riding his cock like a carousel. Talk to him. Tell him what you really mean. Don’t back down. Don't fuckin’ weasel your way around it because you're scared. Tell him what’s really going on in there,” Trigger pressures, pushing his claw against Emil’s forehead. “Spamton’s a nobody at that office and you know it. As for you, no offense, you’re team lead at a shitty marketing agency. No one outside that office except me and Popper knows you two exist. He's already not talking to you; there's nothing to lose.”

Emil stumbles as he turns to face Trigger. “I don’t want to hurt him again…” he warbles, tears lingering in the corner of his eyes.

“... You’re not gonna’ hurt him.”

“How,” Emil begs, “how do you know?”

Trigger peers deep into Emil’s eyes as he approaches him with a stern gait, resting his arms on Emil’s shoulders to steady him. “‘Cause you’re not me…”

Emil heaves as he ragdolls in Trigger’s embrace.

Trigger hugs Emil tight, rubbing his back as the nightlife goes on without them.

Chapter 8

Spamton lays slack on his foldout as images flicker into existence on the TV.

Wrong Attachment. It’s a passable sitcom. Nothing amazing about the production quality or writing. The plots are predictable, overt commercials. It involves an aquamarine addison trying to sell pools and jacuzzis. In several episodes, she exploits her unique hue as a marketing gimmick with the usual slapstick fare.

Two addisons are on screen; one pink and the other yellow. They're gossiping by the water cooler about a cyan addison who has a crush on the aquamarine one.

Their casual banter, the way they laugh - Spamton never experienced that with coworkers. It’s not as though he never tried. But he always had to initiate the engagement. Always had to ask to be invited. He went to a few lunches. But each time visible unease loomed over the table like a dark cloud. Realizing it would never relent, he stopped initiating. At least in that scenario. The breakroom by the coffee machine. That had to be a better shot. Chatting for a few minutes was less stressful than an entire hour. If either party became nervous or embarrassed, the exit was easy, so he gave it a shot. At first, everything seemed ok; great even. But then he noticed the cracks... While the flow of conversation was smoother, it was only tolerance; never acceptance. Rarely did they ask him questions, and if they did, it came off as condescending more than curious. Exchanges grew as stale and bitter as the midday brew even if he kept a chipper tone and participated in topics of their interests. In one embarrassing instance, Spamton made a passing comment about his prior job as a postman. Everyone went mute. One of them even left the room. Mortified, he soon left too.

He knows he's awkward. That he's queer and neurotic compared to the average addison. But if he could adjust himself and find the right tone and presentation - they'd accept him... Right? He's an addison after all. Adapting to a situation at the flip of a hat's in his blood; at least - it should be... So he tried a different tactic.

Spamton drank less coffee. Did breathing exercises and gave himself pep talks in his office before break time. Cool and collected, that's who he had to be. He couldn't be weird or too chatty. They had to take the lead. It was the considerate and smarter option.

Yet to Spamton's dismay, once he pulled back, so did they. The haste with which they disengaged shocked him as did their visible relief and return to normalcy. There was no extended engagement beyond a nod of apathetic acknowledgment or an alert about the printer. So, he gave up. He stopped going to lunch and ate alone in his office if he ate at all as his stomach was easy to upset. He only spoke when spoken to. Except…

Spamton glares at the cyan addison and his expression turns sour.

Ever since their fight, he’s kept his distance from Emil. Emil seemed to take the not-so-subtle hint, he also didn't... There was a period when Spamton received a voicemail almost every night. He didn’t know if it was him. His answering service was too archaic to list the number. Only the amount of messages. But who else could it be?

The moment a message spawned, he erased it. A few days passed and the voicemails stopped as did the attempted calls. Despite this, there was no relief. The silence, the isolation; it was all so painful. Sorrow, resentment, and passion all simmered into a toxic bile making him sick to his stomach. There were listless nights. Nights he cried. Nights he fumbled about to his unknowing. Nights he masturbated to the thought of him. His broken mind splintered into fractals. A fissure formed and he plummeted into a new rock bottom.

Agitated, Spamton gets up, heading toward the kitchen when there’s a knock at the door.

He turns to the clock, it’s 8pm. Sometimes maintenance came late. Clogs downstairs requiring access through his unit weren’t a rare occurrence. Especially with the new tenant… While such a late visit is taboo for finer residences, it was standard for his.

Spamton twirls around in a flopsy manner as though he is a marionette trudging to the door. Upon opening it a sliver he slams it shut. Palms press against aged wood as claws dig into the grain. Clasped teeth grind against one another. He strains to breathe. It feels like his ribcage is collapsing, piercing into his heart. “How did you find my address…”

“I - told HR you left something work-related at your desk…”

Spamton snarls, slamming his fist against the door before thrusting himself off it.

“I'm sorry - I didn’t know what to do. You won’t talk to me or pick up the phone…”

“Why should I…” Spamton rumbles, rage seeping through the slits of his teeth. “When I tried you pushed me away. Now you wanna’ talk and I’m supposed to listen?”

“You’re right; I’m -”

“You know how much that’s messed with me? How stupid I feel?”

“I know… Spamton, I’m sorry; I -”

“Sorry... You’re always sorry and you always know...” Spamton scoffs.

“Please just - let me explain…”

“There’s nothing to explain. You’ve explained before, remember? You didn’t then and you won’t now…”

“I've been a hypocrite. You have every right to be pissed..." Emil submits in desperation. “But please; let -”

“No!" Spamton barks. “I’m tired of listening! Of - of - getting my hopes up! I hate this! That you're here; how you make me feel! Pulling me around like I’m some - some plaything!”

“You’re not a plaything. I would never consider you that…”

“God..” Spamton winces, rubbing his eyes. “This is a joke. I’m a joke for talking to you…” he sputters with a breathless laugh.

“You’re not a joke," Emil stresses. A strained sound seeps through from the other side of the door. “Look - I'm not good at this. At explaining what's - going on in my mind or what to do...” Emil pauses as his tone shifts. “How to tell someone I -”

“Don't. Don't even say it...” Spamton hisses, cutting Emil off. Lips coil in a twisted grin as a sour snicker hisses through. “… It’s only been two weeks. 'You haven’t thought things through,' remember? You don’t know me. Neither of us do.”

“Spamton...” Emil's voice lowers, teetering on the edge. “I've had feelings for you before the call. Long before that…”

“Shut up…”

“And I do know you…”

“I said shut up...” Spamton growls, his entire being quaking.

Wood creaks as Emil presses himself against the door. “I -”

“Stop -” Spamton snaps, grabbing tufts of his crest.

“Listen...”

“No! It's a farce!” Spamton cackles. “All of it!”

“It’s not! I’m here! I’m here right now telling you it's not! Spamton, please,” Emil begs. “I know I haven't shown it - but I care about you. I -”

“If you 'care' about me then why -” Spamton chokes back tears. “Then leave... You're my boss, remember?” he scolds with a snide swagger of his head. “We're coworkers. That's it...”

“That's not true...” Emil strains.

“It is. You've made that very clear. So please,” Spamton pleads, his voice cracking. “Leave…”

“I can't!”

“Why?!”

“Because I’m scared too!”

Silence.

“… You’ve told me that already…” Spamton reminds.

“And I’ll say it again because it’s true. I'm scared... And you're better than me. You're not a coward.”

Spamton furrows his brow as he shakes his head, fogged and troubled by Emil's desperate confession. He turns to walk away.

“When that customer slapped you in the face you told others you tripped and fell onto your packages and you laughed it off. You kept working. Despite the stares - the pain. You kept working because you chose to. And you show up to work every day despite being treated like garbage. You try so hard to do your best - be your best - even when the odds are against you. I know they don't respect you, Spamton, and I'm ashamed I stopped respecting you too. That was never my intent; especially not to you. I’m the joke... I’m the fool…”

Spamton halts, pressing a hand against the left side of his chest. “... Who told you about that?”

“I overheard it; parts of it.” Emil explains. “You were in the break room by the coffee machine. At first, I thought you were telling a funny story, and wanted to ask more about it, but you were upset. Brushed past me before I could say anything. Someone filled me in on the rest. I'm sorry that happened to you, Spamton.”

Spamton stares at the door. The incident was still fresh in his mind despite how long ago it seemed. The botched way in which he told it. That desperate need for some reaction; some connection. A laugh, a joke, a moment of sympathy - something. All he received was consternation and contempt shrouded in silence.

A strange sensation overwhelms him. A clashing barrage of thoughts slam against his skull, striving for acknowledgment, to be let in. Spamton closes his eyes, rubbing his temple. There's an urge to approach. To open the door. To see him. Smell him. Taste him. Take him. it pulsates in his core. But something else nips at the idea. Spamton can’t see Emil and he doesn't have to. He's all too attuned to the fluctuations of his very being.

Muscles flex as he prepares to move then stops. He reflects one more time until he comes to a decision. Spamton remains transfixed on the door as it becomes smaller and smaller, and smaller...

“Spamton?” Emil calls out in alarm.

“Call a cab, Emil,” Spamton demands with dismay, biting his lip. “You’re drunk...”

“Please don't make me go,” Emil begs, claws pressing against the door. “I need -”

“To go home,” Spamton interjects with a sterner tone.

“You're right; I'm sorry. I had a little. I thought I had a little... I fucked up, but I meant it. All of it.”

“Yea,” Spamton murmurs, jutting his lower jaw forward. “Like you meant everything on the phone after you had a couple of shots?"

"Spamton. Please," Emil quivers with rapid pants. He leans hard into the door, causing it to ache. "Please don't leave. Open the door. We can work this out.”

Silence.

“I’m not messing around,” Emil argues on the verge of tears. “I’ll do whatever you want, but please don’t leave!”

“‘Neither am I. Leave,” Spamton growls, “or I’ll call someone…”

Emil backs away from the door as if scorched by fire. A poisonous silence slithers through the air. “... Ok...” Emil repents, his voice cracking.

The sound of Emil’s steps seeps through the door’s cracks as he recedes until there’s the click of the main door then - nothing.

“Wow”, a female voice on the TV announces. “I’m glad we cleared that up!”

“Yea, imagine the calamity if we didn't!” adds a male's voice with laughter from the audience accompanying him. “Who knew watering it down would seal the deal?”

“Easy for you two to say. Ya'll didn’t have to wear a bikini to do it…” Another male interjects with dismay as the audience roars.

“Well,” the lead addison cuts in, “that’s what you get for sending the wrong attachment.”

Everyone laughs as the audience claps and the credits roll with a smooth jazz outro. Spamton remains listless as he vacantly gazes into nothing.

Notes:

Sorry for the delayed update!

Life and Christmas have taken up a lot of my time.

Chapter 9's mostly done and might be updated during the break, but it will require several passes to make sure it's where I want it. Not entirely happy with chapter 8, but it's hopefully functional and you guys enjoy it! Nothing's perfect.

As always, it'll be updated for any typos etc I might have missed despite doing several passes as all prior chapters go through this process lol.

Anywho, thanks for the engagement, ya'll! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays. 🎄✨

Chapter 9

Rusted gears of a dying clock grind in a manner that makes Spamton all too aware of the time.

It's late. Almost everyone in the office is gone. Many hours have slipped away since he’d last done a body copy pass for his new client.

He should clock out. Attach the ideas he's written and press send. But each time his hand hovers over the attachment button he diverts, opening a new document for another pass.

Spruce was giving him another shot with a new client and a rough pass is due by the end of the week.

Just one more, Spamton argues to himself. This still isn't good enough... He vies to conjure anything of value, but all that spawns are flickers of amorphous images that dissipate into nothing like sparks from dying embers. He’s exhausted yet needs to turn in something. He closes the document, deciding to beef up something he’d written earlier in the day instead.

This is it. This is all he can do.

Baggy eyes double-check the body copy with neurotic precision until they blur. He rubs them, wincing at the discomfort. Accepting that he’s spent, Spamton slumps in his chair, sighing in exasperation. There’s no way this won’t be kicked back… What’s worse, it's a d-stack client. Most d-stack clients are apathetic toward the quality of the advertisements. The absurdity of the product alone is transparent no matter how good the pitch. So the protocol is to formulate it for the lowest common denominator consumer. Those who are gullible and willing to buy based on desperation or ignorance. This is bottom-of-the-barrel work. Yet they've passed Spamton's last assignment onto someone else. His attempts are that bad...

He weighs his options… Turning it in, even if it requires revision, gives him more time. It’ll provide insight into what he needs to improve. But if he turns it in and it's this bad…

Spamton plops his head in his hands. A tightness forms within his chest as he becomes paralyzed from indecision. Bloodshot ruby eyes stare beyond the keyboard as he tenses from the bombardment of intrusive thoughts. Most of them pertain to the task at hand. Fear over his future at the company. Bills. But through the haze of horror are flickers of Emil. Their time at the bar. Those simple snippets of a shared and knowing smile between them and them only. The comfort of Emil kneeling at his desk and providing reassurance in a way that gives Spamton genuine faith that he can do this.

Spamton moans. He'll never admit it to anyone, but Emil is his buttress. Time and time again Emil arrived as though omniscient to the oncoming dread. Pulling him out of the calamity of his chaos. Though Spamton fights to abstain from the thought or approach of Emil, his visage is always present. If not directly, subtly so; interwoven into his consciousness like a haunt.

Ever since their fight check-ins are curt. There hasn't been mention of what occurred from either of them. No questions concerning how they are doing or if there are the usual plans for the bar. Their future… What was once intimate interaction is now distant decay. They walk around one another with apparent apprehension as though they harbor a sickness. This is the new norm, much to Spamton’s dismay. That is until last Friday...

Anxiety gives way to anger.

How could he? How could he divulge feelings anyone with a heart would be sympathetic to? He had no right to play with his emotions like he did. To keep vying for his attention then pull away the moment he gave in. Not with the stipulations he placed on him... And he was drunk... Who’s to say he was being honest? That he wouldn’t do it again?

Yet - as Emil left, as he heard the forlorn trudge against the cracked hall, Spamton felt that all too familiar ache. It was as intense as the day they talked on the phone. Despite his efforts to move on, he can’t and he doesn’t want to. This intense intimacy feels eternal. Mutating between passion and pain like a cancer. Like a heartbeat. Each day erodes what little composure he musters. Even though they don’t talk beyond the required work affairs and checkups, Spamton sees it in Emil too. Under normal circumstances, Emil is composed. Whatever hints of agitation or worry that break through are slight. Hinted only in his eyes or incessant tapping. His capacity to readjust and focus is what brought Spamton comfort. But that’s absent now.

Emil’s disheveled. Once keen and vibrant eyes are now listless. His affect is flat and comatose. And through the still are spasms of agitation he never fully recovers from for the rest of the day.

They're breaking down.

Spamton remains stuck in rumination until a knock on the door jolts him from his worry.

He holds his breath…

There’s another knock. This time he discerns through the cadence it’s not him. “Come in,” Spamton sighs.

The door bursts open, causing Spamton to flinch back.

A male pink addison, young by the looks of it, peers in with an apathetic glance. He's chewing gum, the smacking of which makes Spamton squirm.

“Hey, uh...” The pink addison squints, as though unable to detect Spamton's location.

“Over here,” Spamton gestures.

“Oh,” he comments, popping his gum. “Printer's jammed, uh...”

“Spamton.”

“Yea," he smirks. “'Spamton'... Sorry. Yea, uh - like I said, printer’s jammed again.”

“Ok. I’m about to wrap up. Is it urgent?”

“Not for me,” the addison shrugs. “I was sent down.”

Spamton pauses in a moment of reflection. “Ok... Well - I’ll be up in a few minutes," he reassures with a somber smile, returning his attention to the monitor. But - he has to know... He looks over his shoulder. “… Did Emil send you?”

The pink addison looks confused. “Who?”

“Emil,” Spamton repeats. “He's cyan uh - team lead for my department.”

“Nah. Spruce sent me down here.”

“Do -” Spamton licks his lips as he swallows. “Do you know if he's still here? Emil, that is?”

“Man, I dunno'..." The pink addison huffs in agitation, spinning around to leave and shutting the door.

Odd…

Emil always fetches him when the printer jammed. Even now, despite their timid treading, Emil does...

What's Spruce doing at work so late? Spamton ponders. More importantly, is Emil still here...

Spamton rubs his chest in agitation. He might as well get it over with...

He saves his files and turns off his computer. He'll tackle the body copy early tomorrow. Some sleep so he can review it with fresh eyes will do him some good.

Spamton makes his way through the door and to the stairs. There's weight to the ascent as the foreboding awareness that Emil might still be present presses down on him.

☎

Spamton enters the main floor. It’s dark since everyone else has clocked out save for one room; the one to his right.

The bullpen is where everyone who isn't him or a postman worked. It’s moderate in size and intimate. Thirty or so desks, along with two offices for the supervisors, occupy the space. Emil's desk is near the center along with the other team leads’.

A sharp ray of incandescent light from the room illuminates the destination. Spamton treads lightly; straining to control his breathing as he approaches the entrance. He's mere feet away when he halts.

A faint echo emanates from within. He takes a few more steps until the noise becomes more discernible. They're voices, two of them. It’s two males. Spamton swallows. It sounds like they're arguing. He can't make out who they belong to. Is it the pink addison? He was agitated… He also mentioned Spruce is still here. Maybe it’s them?

Spamton hesitates. He should wait. He's stressed as it is. Being present for an argument is the last thing he needs. But - Spruce requested he fix the printer. Last thing he needs is to piss off the production coordinator…

He sharply exhales as he takes the plunge, stepping into the room. He winces at the shift from dark to light, making his way with haste to the printer while keeping his head down. He kneels to inspect the trays and the fuser.

“What's going on...” one of the males prods. His words are muffled due to Spamton fixing the printer, but he can tell it’s Spruce.

“There’s nothing going on…” responds another.

Spamton seizes, clasping the fuser after almost dropping it.

“Emil… You’ve been late for meetings, missing emails - something’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Emil argues with a shaky voice.

“… It’s him isn’t it?”

“No...”

“Emil, tell me the truth…”

“It's not him...”

Spamton's heart sprints. A chill runs down his spine.

“I swear...”

“Emil… If you’re still talking to him -”

“I filed a restraining order; It’s not him...”

Clicks of the clock and the AC fill the claustrophobic silence.

Spruce sighs. “Then tell me. What's going on...”

“Personal things is all..”

“Like what?”

Silence.

“Ok... Well, I'm concerned. A lot of us are.” Spruce discloses, shifting his weight. “You're not well.”

“Spruce, I am.”

“You're not.” There's another pause. "As your supervisor, I'm requesting you take a few days off. Get your head right.”

“No, please -” Emil objects with desperation.

“God... Don’t do this, Emil…”

“I’m fine, I swear,” Emil attempts to persuade in a panic. “I’m - I’ll come in early tomorrow. I’ll -”

“No. You won’t. You've been drinking. I smell it on you...”

“... That was last night...” he whispers.

“Yea. And here you are hungover. It's been going on for over a week now; don't think I haven't noticed.”

“Ok. You’re right. I'll sleep it off just - please; let me come in tomorrow.”

“Emil…”

“I’ll touch base with everyone and, and -”

“Emil -”

“ - and I’ll make sure I’ve -”

“Emil!”

“- I’ve done everything! Please!”

“Enough!”

Emil goes mute. All that fills the air are his shuddering breaths. “… Please. Don’t let me go…”

“Listen… I’m not letting you go, ok? Winter's coming to a close and summer will be here before we know it. We need you. But I don’t want to see this again. We can’t have a repeat of last time. For your sake - you can’t either. Take three days off starting tomorrow, ok? Sober up. I mean it...”

What sounds like Spruce patting Emil on the back cuts through the tension. Something else is murmured between them before Spruce recedes towards the bullpen’s exit.

Spamton remains transfixed at the cavern where the fuser goes. He wishes he could crawl into that dark space never to be seen or heard from again.

Without warning there's a sudden slam. Spamton clutches the fuser to his chest. After calming down a little, he pulls out the jammed paper, reinstalls the fuser, and then closes the door. He listens for a moment before straining to stand without making a sound, using the carpet to his advantage. Once up, he turns the corner.

Emil’s slumped in his chair in a catatonic state. His monitor is at an odd angle.

Spamton gulps. There’s no way Emil doesn’t know he’s here... He should leave. Head bowed and swift like he entered. Yet...

Spamton grips his chest while witnessing Emil clasp his bangs and sag forward. Elbows push desk items aside, some of which fall over, as he spasms. Raspy labored breaths fill the stagnant air.

Never in the time that Spamton has known Emil has he seen him break down. Now here he is - weeping. Wilting like a forsaken flower.

As though pulled by a puppeteer, Spamton creeps forward with restrained, calculated movements. Feet press against the worn carpet, muffling his steps. Around the bullpen he weaves until he’s mere feet from Emil. He extends a quaking hand but recoils. “Emil?” Spamton whispers. Emil doesn’t respond. He swallows, teeth grit together from the pain of the reflex. “Emil,” he repeats with a clearer voice.

Emil stiffens.

“I -” Spamton falters. Fuck… What does he say? He opens his mouth, then closes it; he's at a complete loss. He reaches out again, hand trembling, and rests it against Emil’s shoulder.

A brisk gasp leaves Emil as he trembles, straining to calm himself.

Their proximity. The fact that he's touching Emil. It sends Spamton into a panic. Vibrations travel through him as Emil heaves and shivers from the stress of it all. “I - know you’re not ok, so I won't ask,” Spamton acknowledges, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to listen, but -”

“I’m fine...” Emil counters through choked breaths.

“No you’re not,” Spamton refutes breathlessly. “I’m not. You’re not. Neither of us is fine.”

An uncanny whine seeps from Emil’s chattering teeth. “Fuck…”

“I hear you, I…” Spamton tries to jest, desperate to console Emil, but there's nothing humorous about their situation. Laughter comes out like the sudden hiss of a pressure valve as he crumbles. “Last Friday, I thought…” he closes his eyes, biting his lower lip. “I don’t know what to say, Emil... I keep fucking this up. I keep trying to do the right thing but it's like I don’t have control. I - even now I don't know if...” he exhales. “I don't know how to fix this...”

Emil shakes his head in a subtle, drone-like manner. “It's not you...” he coughs, then swallows.

Spamton furrows his brow. “What?”

“I don't know how to stop... I'm -” Emil gestures broadly at himself, his face wrought with misery and remorse. Lips warble as they turn into a pained snarl. “I shouldn't have continued. I shouldn't have shown up at your place. I was drunk and I - that wasn't fair to you...”

“I wasn’t fair to you either, Emil…” Spamton moves his hand in cautious circles, attempting to comfort him. He ruminates as Emil's sobs ebb into sputtering breaths before they calm. “... When you showed up to my place Friday night, you said you had feelings for me before the phone call... Is that true?”

Emil braces at the question. “... Yes,” he finally admits. “But you’re right. I don't know you. I shouldn't have said that.”

“But you meant it.”

“It was wrong...”

“If it's true, how's it wrong?”

“I only told you out of desperation,” Emil explains with a wince. “It was selfish...”

“Like it was selfish of me to... To do what I did on the phone?” Spamton blushes from embarrassment. “I… I can’t stop thinking about you. It's been a long time since someone's acknowledged me. Treated me like a person... I know you said it'll go away - that feeling. But… I don't want it to...”

“You should...” Emil refutes, his thumb tapping his chin.

“Do you want it to?” Spamton asks with hesitation.

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It does.”

“It’s not right.”

“And this is? Being miserable - this is right? … At your place, you kept saying you ‘can’t’ not that you ‘wouldn’t’. We’re scared. Scared of the consequences if we go further. But this? I hate this, Emil. It’s not working. We’re - pulling each other's strings; hurting each other... We gotta’ choose something else. No more back-and-forth. No more games.” Spamton swallows, slicking back his crest. “... If I opened the door, what would you have done?”

Violet-blue eyes dart toward Spamton.

Spamton is a skittish addison. A wallflower one could say. Rarely acknowledged and if he is, others look down at him; literally and figuratively. It isn’t condescending, at least not with Emil. Only necessity due to his stature. There is a magnificence in the dynamic. A foreboding hierarchy of dominance. The intent of their acknowledgment doesn’t matter as the weight of it is the same. They’re goliaths beholding a mere speck.

Now it’s different. Emil's hunched pose makes them level with one another. He sees his reflection within Emil's gaze. A desperate man seeking guidance and reassurance. Seeking someone to tell him what to do

“You already know...” Emil responds with a notable shift in tone. He lowers his hands, slightly turning his torso so he's facing Spamton.

They stare at one another. A terrible heat fills Spamton to the point that he pants. He fidgets, adjusting his glasses and claws at his chest. He wants to look away but can't. He's hypnotized. This is the closest they've been together. And although he's looked at Emil numerous times, he never observed at him. At least not in this way. It feels taboo. Forbidden. But now, despite the panic boiling inside, he can’t turn back.

Emil is haggard. Yet like shrubbery shrouding a sculpture, his beauty is not abstracted. Thick, long bangs frame his chiseled face and jaw. His teeth, prominent of any addison, peek through supple lips in a way that makes him appear like an innocent babe. His eyes; those beautiful eyes, flicker with intensity through the bands of hair.

Spamton's jaw tightens. What the hell is he doing? He isn’t Prince Charming. He doesn’t have the wit of Trigger, the cool of Popper, or the looks of Banner. He’s a broken neurotic little thing. Yet despite his quaking, despite his awkwardness, Emil remains transfixed. Not a hint of dismay, derision, or disgust is present.

Warm digits wrap themselves around Spamton's wrist. Teeth part as Emil's tongue peeks through, wetting his bottom lip before vanishing. Eyes squint as he knits his brow, his gaze intensifying; never wavering.

As though beckoned by a siren, Spamton leans in, staring deep into those violet-blue pools. Emil's pupils are dilated portals containing secrets he yearns to know.

Spamton lets go of his shirt and rests his hand on Emil's thigh. It's firm. His thumb slips downward as he balances himself. Emil hisses, flexing from the sensation of it. Before he knows it, Spamton plunges into the warmth of Emil's lips.

Heat ignites from their contact like a powder keg. It radiates through Spamton with such force he quakes. Fevered hands clasp at flesh, feathers, anything and everything. He's hungry. Ravished. Never has he felt a hug. Never has he embraced a kiss. All Spamton knows is darkness. The abyss of despair. No amount of self-determination freed him from the roots of decay ensnaring him. They only grew thicker with each struggle as the light above became a distant star.

With this mutual embrace, there’s a polarizing shift. He’s breaking free. The walls are crumbling. Roots rotting away as the once distant light burns with brilliance. There’s a blinding understanding of the unfamiliar. It electrifies him. It humbles him. This awareness, this feeling - he can't let it go. He can't go back. He’ll die - cease to be. He’s desperate for more. He needs more.

Spamton presses in harder, firmer. Moans reverberate between them causing his back to arch in titillation. Both hands clutch Emil's face as he sets his knee into the crevice between Emil's legs to bring them closer.

Emil bucks upward and gasps, grabbing Spamton's hands and pulling him back.

Spamton snaps out of it. He blinks a few times as though coming out of a trance and upon doing so, realizes the position he’s in. He retracts, placing his hands over his groin. “Sorry…”

“You're fine,” Emil comforts through fevered pants. “It’s just - not here. We shouldn’t do this here.”

Spamton looks up and then back down in embarrassment as he nods in agreement.

“If - if we’re going to do this. Really going to do this - we need to take things slow. Get to know each other.”

Spamton catches his breath and peeks up. “… Really?”

“Really,” Emil echoes as he regains composure. “That was - wow...” he remarks, wiping the bottom of his lip. “You almost knocked me out of my chair.”

Spamton tucks his chin into his clavicle, clasping his eyes shut. “I’m sorry…”

“It's ok, and that wasn’t an insult,” Emil reassures. “… Have you ever kissed someone?”

Spamton shakes his head. “I’ve never been with anyone. In any context…”

“That’s fine. We all start somewhere.”

“You don’t have to be kind. I know I’m -” Spamton obscures his eyes with a hand.

“I’m being honest. And since I'm being honest, I liked it. Really liked it. Didn't know you had that in you," Emil adulates, but Spamton only withdraws further. “I’m sorry. That - came out wrong; I -”

Spamton shakes his head. “No - you’re fine. I’m being weird, I'm... ” claws dig into his chest as he starts to hyperventilate.

“You’re what?” Emil prods with concern. When Spamton doesn’t respond, he adds, “is this too much?”

Spamton nods then shakes his head. “Shit... I'm being stupid…”

“What? What makes you think that?”

“Because I'm always like this. I always feel like I’m doing something wrong. Like I’m going to ruin this somehow when I just said we gotta’ stick to something and -” Spamton flinches as Emil cups his chin with his index finger and thumb.

“Hey, listen - you’re not stupid. It’s butterflies, is all. Doesn’t help I've put you through a lot... But that's on me; not you. We’ll take things slow, ok?”

“Ok,” Spamton whispers.

They both take in the moment as a minute or two passes.

“What are you feeling now?” Emil asks, stroking Spamton’s jaw.

“A lot of things. Dunno' if I can explain...”

“You don’t have to. But you're ok, right? Do you think you’ll be ok tonight?” he rephrases.

“Yea,” Spamton assures with a calm exhale, succumbing to Emil’s caresses.

“Good,” Emil sighs in relief. “Just so you know, I don’t care what time it is or what you’re going through. If you need me, call. About anything. Good, bad, doesn’t matter. I’m just a call away.”

Spamton looks up.

For the first time in weeks, he's greeted with Emil's smile. It's weary and worn, but the familiar warmth and comfort it provides is all too present.

Spamton can't help but smile back. He pushes up his glasses and then presses his hands against Emil’s. “I've missed that.”

“Missed what?” Emil furrows his brow.

“Your smile… It’s handsome.”

Emil laughs and for a second, his expression becomes mournful. He bows his head, swaying it to one side before returning his attention to Spamton with unshed tears. “Ditto.”

Chapter 10

Three days have passed since Spamton and Emil spoke. Their conversation on Monday, while a relief, was tumultuous.

The urge to call Emil was intense, but he abstained despite Emil saying he could call any time he needed. The problem is, Spamton almost always needed to. He needed Emil. But Spamton also knows it was best they recalibrate. Approach each other with a fresh perspective. Emil agreed and thought it wise he took his time off seriously. Do things right, as he put it. And that meant no contact between either of them.

This agreed time apart didn’t make it easy though. Each night after work Spamton strained to distract himself. Each attempt was a failure. The cyan addisons on tv, his decrepit couch, and his shitty dinners all reminded him of Emil.

And then there's the phone… Its presence is always felt. It taunts him from the corner of his eye. Each day as he walked home from work his anxiety spiked as he entered his unit and saw that red light blinking in the distance, beckoning him like a lighthouse. And much to his dismay, it was void of Emil's messages. The few messages he received were nothing but garbage noise. Distorted and disturbed as always, although lately, Spamton thought he heard - someone… Yet like an addict he still checked; hoping - praying that one was from Emil despite knowing there'd be none.

Discombobulated thoughts consumed Spamton to the point he was having chronic stomach aches. Time felt eternal. Each task was an endless, vague, dizzying loop. He was on autopilot. If someone were to ask about his day, he wouldn't know.

Then without warning, it was Friday.

It had been three days since he’d seen Emil...

Spamton was a nervous wreck. A house of cards. Any glance or sound made him clench his chest, cower, or freeze as he caught his breath. He kept his gaze downcast as he entered rooms at work and didn't entertain coffee or lunch. He was far too stimulated and stressed and was buckling under the weight to maintain the act.

Spruce did the morning check-in, which caught him off guard. Anxious anticipation gave way to dulled depression.

Was Emil here? He picked at his chest, itching to know. He wanted to ask someone - ask Spruce, but he didn't. Spruce pry more than he should if he asked...

The click of the clock pounded his eardrums as the day crawled to afternoon. It was then that latent anxiety spurred forth upon hearing something approaching. Spamton didn't have to look up, he knew from the cadence of steps descending the stairs who it was. Dread coursed through him as the distinct sound of the knob turning creaked in the air...

Spamton didn't dare look up and much to his surprise, the cheerful prompts and prods expected from Emil were absent. He was direct and to the point. Focused entirely on work. There was no hint or mention of Monday.

Emil was decidedly distant… Sure, discussing personal matters at work wasn't safe, yet the lack of recognition made Spamton's heart race. The checkup was swift, then he was gone.

It wasn’t until after closing that Emil stopped by again. This time he locked the door which immediately caused Spamton to look his way. There was a keenness in Emil's eyes as he spoke in a secretive manner. He asked Spamton if he was free Saturday to come to his place. Spamton, surprised and dumbfounded, agreed in his usual sheepish way but declined Emil’s offer to pick him up. He didn't know how much Emil recalled of his apartment or where he lived last Friday. Emil was drunk. If he'd forgotten, it was best he had...

So here he is on a Saturday night on a bus to Emil's, staring at a piece of gum because he's a nervous wreck.

He's doing this.

He's really doing this.

He's going to Emil’s for a date.

His first ever date.

In preparation, Spamaton researched online but none of the information helped. What he read, that wasn’t behind a paywall, was typical addison fare. The advice felt sleazy and deceitful. Pickup methods and how to get to third base. Sex, while a titillating concept, is far from his consciousness. Although he knows how it's done, he doesn't know where to begin. Even if he did, they're taking things slow. It's doubtful either of them are in the mood after the week they've had. More importantly, he wasn’t cool; he was - him. No amount of effort or masking could make Spamton cool. Yet, to his fortune, Emil didn’t seem to care. So he shouldn’t have to be someone he wasn’t, right?

Even so, such thoughts nip at him. Especially now. His attire feels dorky and his palms are sweating as they feverishly clasp a box. But there's no turning back. He's buried the part of him that wants to.

Emil likes him.

He likes Emil.

No more back-and-forth.

No more games.

The bus comes to a rickety stop, causing Spamton to bump against a passenger who sounds a sulking snarl. “S-sorry,” Spamton apologizes, clutching the box.

As they rise, a different passenger pushes Spamton aside and he loses his grip. “Hey! Watch it!” he tries alerting the impatient passenger clamoring for the exit. But due to their apathy or his timid nature, no one heeds/ Feet plod and plow atop the floor. Around he bounces like a ping-pong ball as the box slides across the grimy ground like a puck. “Excuse me, please!” Spamton shouts to no avail. He squeezes between someone, struggling toward the front and they press their palm against his face, thrusting him back. Spamton catches himself on a seat and adjusts his glasses as he orients himself, but there's grease all over them... It's then the unmistakable sound of a muffled crunch sends him into a rage. “I said,excuse me!” he exclaims, bum-rushing aside the blurry assailant. He snaps the box into his arms, exiting with haste to avoid any further conflict.

Spamton stands off to the side and pulls out a cloth, cleaning his glasses. Once clean, he inspects the damage. The box is crushed on one side although most of it appears spared. He closes his eyes, vying to remain composed. He should check the contents and ensure they’re not damaged. But what if they are…

A small whine creeps from pursed lips as he pushes the thought down. Emil’s a good guy, he tells himself. He’ll understand. He’ll understand…

☎

Spamton makes his way down Emil’s street box in hand as he approaches the complex. It’s of moderate build. Average but better looking concerning the exterior compared to his complex. He never got a good look of it when he left... He rummages in his pocket for the piece of paper Emil slipped him on Friday with the front door’s code. He types it in and waits until hearing a buzz and click. He opens the door and enters the complex.

The carpet in the halls smells fresh as if someone recently cleaned it. Something about the scent puts Spamton at ease as he wanders down the corridor and up a flight of stairs.

Emil lives on the second floor, unit seventeen. He inspects each door until coming across it.

Well.

This is it.

Spamton swallows, tests his breath, slicks back his crest, and adjusts his glasses. He reaches for the door, hesitates, checks his breath again, then proceeds. A trembling fist taps the surface with a light knock. When no response comes, he gives a harder one. The sound of footsteps and the handle jiggling make him seize. Hinges creak as it opens and Spamton vies to remain upright and not crumble.

A sliver of warm light widens revealing Emil. He looks to his left, a moment of perplexity lingering in his eyes until his attention turns down. His demeanor shifts, causing Spamton's knees to buckle. “Hey,” he greets with his signature mellow smile.

“H-hey,” Spamton whispers, his voice cracking, clutching the box to his chest. What does he do? What does he say? “I uh - your plants are nice.”

“What?”

Shit.

“Your plants. Outside," Spamton gestures with his hand still trembling. They’re nice.”

“Oh,” Emil chuffs with bemusement, unsure of how to respond to such a random observation.

“They’re more alive than the ones we have. Except for the weeds. They’re mostly weeds.” Spamton sputters with a shaky smile. “They’re actually - I think they’re weeds.”

Shit - shit - shit…

Emil chuckles at Spamton’s commentary but there’s not a hint of ridicule in his tone. “Well, those must be some hardy weeds. Please - come in,” he gestures, standing aside as Spamton skitters in.

“Hallway smells nice too,” Spamton spews as nerves get the best of him. But Emil goes along with it.

“Yea. The cleaning crew came by Friday.”

“Oh?”

“Yea, they come about once a month. With how much I pay, they'd better,” Emil jests.

“That's good,” Spamton nods, kicking off his shoes at the door and setting the box on the table behind the couch. “Wish my landlord was better about that,” he rambles, rubbing his arm to self-soothe. “I never got to ask Friday, uh - how was the break?”

Emil stiffens. “It was good,” he smiles, although Spamton detects how reserved it is. “I needed to clear my head a bit. What about you? How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been good,” Spamton nods, exhaling sharply.

They inspect one another with awkward interest. A muted yet warm-hued patterned sweater adorns Emil's torso. It’s tucked into a pair of off-gray high-rise jeans with a belt. Adorning Spamton is an off-white button-down shirt covered by a muted mahogany cardigan. Dark brown khakis with a black belt covered the rest.

“You look nice,” Spamton compliments, wanting to break through the tension and justify his ogling.

“Oh,” Emil peeks at his own attire. “Thanks. But I’m afraid you have me beat in that department. You’re dressed to the nines.”

Spamton looks around then back to Emil. “What?”

“The nines. It means you look really good,” Emil laughs.

“Oh!” Spamton responds with a sheepish scratch of his chest. “I’m sorry. Thanks, uh - I hope it’s not too much. I don't have many clothes and I’m not sure how to go about these kinds of things.” He laughs although it sounds more like a hiccup.

“Well, that’s the cool thing about a casual date, at least with me. You can go about it any way you want,” Emil notes, gesturing to Spamton’s attire with a soft bow.

“Ok - well, that’s good. That’s really good because I don’t know what I’m doing - at all,” he discloses, picking at the left rim of his cardigan’s collar.

“No one does when they first go about it.”

“Go about what?”

Emil squints. “Dating.”

“Yea - right. God, I'm sorry, Emil...” Spamton hyperventilates. “I'm - I don't want to mess this up and I keep blabbering but -” he flinches as Emil rests his hand on his shoulder, giving it a tender rub.

“First date jitters; I get it. But it’s just us. You don't have to worry about trying to impress me or ‘messing up’. You're gonna' be fine and we're gonna' have fun. Ok?”

“Ok…” Spamton complies with a small nod while rubbing his chest. “So - uh… What’s on the agenda?”

“Figured we’d keep things simple,” Emil shrugs, resting his hands in his pockets. “Food and a movie if you're up to it.”

“We’re going back out?”

“Oh no. Thought it best to stay in. Keep it simple. I have a lot of movie and pay-per-view channels.” Emil glances at the door, licks his lips, then returns his attention to Spamton. “Do you wanna' go out?”

“No yea, uh -” Spamton shakes his head then nods with relief. “Yea. Staying in; that sounds dandy. I dunno’ about eating though. I’m not hungry right now.”

“Ok,” Emil acknowledges with a chuff. “I was gonna’ make some oyakodon, but we can do that later if it’s not too late. Or we can get takeout if your appetite picks back up. Either way, it's not a problem.”

“Sounds good,” Spamton agrees, rocking on the heels of his feet.

“In the meantime, we can watch a movie if you want. Maybe make some popcorn to snack on? I also have some seaweed snacks.”

“Yea,” Spamton halfway acknowledges, his attention elsewhere, “that sounds good.”

Emil follows Spamton's line of sight to the piano. “Want me to play something?”

Spamton blinks. “What?”

“Piano,” Emil references with a nod of his head. “Noticed you peeping it.”

“Oh no, I mean - I’d love to hear you play. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to, Spamton,” Emil chuckles. “Come on,” he requests as he saunters toward it.

Emil sits and Spamton stands behind him, leaning to observe the keys. Emil looks over his shoulder, gesturing with a nod for Spamton to come closer. Spamton takes a few steps forward. “So, what would you like me to play?”

“Huh?”

“Choose something.”

“Oh, uh…” Spamton licks his lips and furrows his brow, straining to conjure something. “I’m sorry. I don’t know any songs…”

Emil returns a queer look. “None?”

“I mean - I listen on the bus and to the late-night cassette collection commercials. But - I don’t really know any by name. I know some jingles,” Spamton suggests with haste. “Does that count?”

“Sure,” Emil grins. “Those are songs. Have any in mind?”

“What about the Cungadero™ one?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Emil smirks. Fingers move with grace across the keys as he sings. There’s a scratchiness to his voice, but it’s endearing all the same and it's not off key. “Take a mile you’ll surely smile, ‘cause now you drive Cungadero™ style.” A middle finger taps the last note of the measure before flicking upward. “How’s that?”

“Wow,” Spamton compliments in awe, with a broad smile reaching his eyes. “You just - know the notes?”

“Yea. I need a music sheet for more complex songs unless I know it by heart. But if you take the time to listen and learn the keys you can play almost anything without a reference.”

“I don’t think I could ever do that,” Spamton rubs his nose with a shy grin.

“Don’t know until you try.” Emil leans back some, shifting his legs over a hair.

Spamton swallows. Is... Emil suggesting he sit? The bench is rather small, although there is room. But it'll be a tight fit… Yet - this is a date. He should sit. Emil does seem to want him to sit. But what if they get too close… What if he gets - excited…

Emil's eyes glance down then back to Spamton as he licks his lips, but Spamton remains. “Anything else you’d like me to play?” he asks with a more subdued tone.

“How about you choose something,” Spamton suggests. “All I know are jingles.” After a moment’s reflection, he adds, “choose your favorite song. I’d like to hear that.”

“Ok,” Emil complies with a smile, but something scratches beneath the calm of his expression. His shoulders tense and his gaze becomes detached. There’s a tautness in his lips. A hesitance in the placement of his hands. It’s as if he lacks control and is scared to submit. He stares at the keyboard with consternation until finally pressing a key.

When playing the jingle there was a lackadaisical yet honed gesture to his strokes. But now, that bled from him and all that remains is unrestrained passion. Hands strike the keys with marksman precision. The melody is bittersweet and medium in tempo as it approaches the first verse. And it’s then that Emil sings a ballad, his sincerity lacing his pain. As the chorus approaches, bravado breaks through coarse vocals. They embrace one another rather than ensnare. Complement rather than compete. Almost as if they're proclaiming some truth. A truth both tender and cruel. Up and down Emil bobs like a marionette. Lax one moment then erect the next as if struck into existence before seeping back into some deeper state of being. And to Spamton's surprise, Emil's eyes are closed. This is all instinct. No... Soul. Emil is no longer with him. No longer aware. He resides now in a place Spamton cannot enter.

As the song enters the outro, there’s an abrupt deviation. The coarseness in Emil's voice becomes more prominent as does the knit in his brow. Hands, once floating as free as leaves in autumn, stiffen. The tone, once melodic and serene, collapses into a cacophony of discord and then -

Spamton looks on with trepidation. Emil’s eyes are clenched shut. His chest rises and falls as pained breaths leave him with alarming speed through quivering lips. Fingers tremble atop the keyboard causing sour notes to haunt the air. “Emil?” Spamton calls out, but all he receives are sharp sputtering breaths. He approaches with caution. “Emil?” he calls out again. No response. Spamton swallows as he sits. He reaches for Emil's thigh, thinks better of it, then retracts.

As the minutes pass Emil starts to calm and his breathing stabilizes. Violet-blue eyes peek through thick lashes. They remain fixed forward; unaware of anything else. “I’m sorry, I…” Emil trails off.

“It’s ok,” Spamton reassures with a crack in his voice. What just happened… “Do you need anything?”

Emil shakes his head, still staring ahead.

“Do you… Want me to stay here?”

Emil returns a nod. So they remain in the moment together.

“That was a beautiful song,” Spamton blurts, uncomfortable with the long silence.

“Thanks,” Emil returns with a shivering smile that drops to a flat affect as he remains facing forward.

“I never got into music. It always made me feel - more alone. But I liked that. I really did.”

“Thanks…” Emil whispers. “Sorry I ruined it at the end.”

“You didn’t ruin it.” Spamton gulps before continuing. “Sorry I made you play it. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“You didn’t make me play it and you didn’t make me upset. It’s - been a while since I played that song.”

“Ok…” Spamton murmurs in acknowledgment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yea.”

“Does it always make you upset? That song?”

The right corner of Emil's lip twitches as his brow furrows. “Sometimes. A lot of the time.”

“Then... Why play it?”

“Because it's my favorite song.”

Spamton looks at the piano. The dust he'd seen atop it a few weeks prior was far more evident in the light. “Why?”

Emil turns to Spamton. “Do you remember the first day you worked on the advertising floor? What you asked me?”

Spamton looks off to the side in contemplation. “I... Think I asked you if you liked your job.”

“Yea, but after that.”

Spamton shakes his head.

“You asked if it gave me meaning.”

“You said it did, Spamton recalls, confused as to what Emil's getting at.

“Yea... That question - it stuck with me,” he notes a consternated expression. “It doesn’t give me meaning, Spamton…”

Spamton squirms. “I’m - not sure what this has to do with the song, Emil.”

Emil lifts his right hand, playing several measures as he speaks the lyrics. “The night comes down and moments glow. The rats go by and by. Everyone just turns around, and waits to feel inside…” Spamton looks on with reverence as Emil continues. “And down you came with all you know, and captured my desire. Ain't it true you know I'd find That I'm already tied…” Emil holds the last key. The note lingers before fading into nothing. “Every addison I know is content. Work, partners, kids… No one’s ever asked me if what I do gives me meaning because I don't think they have to ask that of themselves. They do what's required and they get it. They get to feel. I don't think I've ever really felt what it’s like to have meaning. At least not true meaning. To be content," he murmurs, turning his attention to Spamton. “Except with you.”

“Me?” Spamton leans back in surprise.

Emil returns a curt nod.

“I - how - I mean, we talk about work.”

“We’ve talked about other things,” Emil reminds with a knowing stare.

Spamton feels a flicker of heat flush his face. “Yea, but besides that - it’s my boring hobbies or me complaining; I… Why me? I mean - I’m, I’m a nobody.”

Emil stiffens. There’s hurt in his eyes. “Stop saying that…”

“It’s true, Emil. I’m the most boring guy you could know. That’s a fact.”

“Trigger’s boring. Popper’s boring. Even Spruce can oftentimes be boring,” Emil bemoans. “No one talks about deeper things. No one wants to. Or - or has pain they live with and work through. Fail at things, struggle to pick up the pieces. Pieces that never fit like they did. Everyone’s content. Everyone has meaning.” Emil’s right thumb and index finger fiddle with his left hand’s middle one, pinching it. “Or maybe they’re better at ignoring and hiding it...”

Spamton gulps as he looks up at Emil. Aside from the brief moments Friday and Monday, he’s never seen Emil so broken, so much like himself. He wishes he weren’t so puny. So small. So - insignificant. He wants to comfort Emil. But what can he offer? He’s the last person anyone should solicit for help. “Do you… Want to talk about it? The hiding thing?”

Emil purses his lips in shame, shaking his head. “No... Heh - looks like I’m the one fumbling this date. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

“Well,” Spamton shifts his weight toward Emil so that their shoulders touch. “It’s like you said - you’re dating me now. We can do whatever we want.” You’re dating me now. Embarrassment strikes Spamton’s core, causing him to shrink in on himself.

“I want this to work, Spamton...”

“We'll make it work.”

“That's easier said and done in the beginning. You've known and hung out with me for a while, but this is a different setting. You only know parts of me.” Emil tucks in his lower lip, biting it.

“Yea. But it's like you said; we're taking things slow so - it'll work.”

A pained grin pulls at the corners of Emil's mouth though he strains to conceal it. It collapses into a frown before going lax. “That's the problem. This isn't going slow. I'm - you shouldn't be here dealing with this on a first date, or - at all. I wanted tonight for you to be fun…”

Spamton leans into Emil's line of sight. “Like our times at the bar are supposed to be fun, then I freak out? Or at the office when you do check-ins?”

“That’s different.”

“You've seen me at my worst more than once, Emil... I'm a wreck. Yet you keep coming back. You still - like me. You think I’d leave because you’re having a bad day?” Spamton interrogates, somewhat offended by the suggestion.

“It’s not just a bad day, Spamton. This is part of me…”

“So let me get to know that part of you, Emil. Help you like you help me.”

Emil doesn't respond.

Maybe Spamton's out of his depth. It wouldn't be a shock. But when has he not been? When has he not continued to fight? “Emil, I don't know what I’m doing. And you're right; I don't know what any of this is like. Dating - any of it. But I know what it's like to be stuck. Implode. To fight with friends... We fought, but we're still here.” He bites his lip, pushing down the nerves. “These bad moments... They're moments. They go away if we work through it. Give it time. Give us time,” he asserts with a breathless proclamation. “We don't have to talk about it anymore. We can just sit here. But, the door’s open if you do.” His thumb pets the top of Emil’s hand. “It’ll always be open.”

Emil turns to Spamton. There’s a sharpness in his stare. Sharpness Spamton’s seen only in Trigger or when the two of them clash. Emil isn't looking at Spamton, he is looking into him. “I’ll tell you, and if you want me to stop. For us to stop, let me know; tonight.”

“Tell me what?”

“A bit more about me. My past, I guess. I... It's kind of... It's important...” The innate softness in Emil’s voice gave way to something hidden and secretive. Something foreboding as though he were a harbinger. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to get too attached if it’s something you know you can’t handle. Especially when you shouldn’t.”

Fear clutches Spamton by the throat as he opens his mouth but nothing comes out. What was Emil talking about? What could make him this serious? This scared? Spamton mirrors Emil’s stern stare as he straightens himself. “We agreed no back and forth...”

“This isn’t that. It’s an out if you need it.”

Spamton clasps Emil's hand; his gaze fixed. “Tell me...”

Notes:

Thanks to the comments left on chapter 9 and thank you all for being patient!

For those who are curious, the song Emil's playing is "The Motive" by Then Jerico. If ya'll're curious about Emil's voice ( singing and speaking ), he sounds like Kenshi Yonezu. It's mellow, soft, and kinda' scratchy at times.

Also, got some Spamton doodles up of him as a postman. ( https://furaffinity.net/view/55051589/ ) Doodling some fic-related stuff that I'll likely be posting on FA for any who are curious!

Chapter 11

Summary:

⚠ This chapter contains mentions and depictions of physical and domestic abuse.

Please read my comment within this chapter before responding to anything about the topic above.

Emil stares at the field of ash before him. In reality, it isn't ash. It's dust. Dust resting atop keys of ivory and ebony framed by cherrywood.

He doesn't recall the last time he played. Since he's acknowledged this instrument's existence. Now it's all he wishes he could acknowledge.

He's fighting. Fighting with every fiber of his being to remain still. To remain quiet. To remain.

“Tell me…”

Hushed breaths quake from his aching chest. He retains his gaze upon the specs of dust, some fibers range from dulled cyan to celeste.

A sharp pain splinters through Emil’s being causing him to spasm. Claws drill into the side of his neck and jaw. The room dissolves as he’s contorted. He loses his balance, bracing himself atop the bench.

“I had to phone my chauffeur and cut production to get to this side of town. Don’t make me ask again.”

“I can’t breathe....” Emil whimpers in agony. Sharp throbs radiate with each rapid heartbeat as his jugular is compressed. “Please…” When the pressure doesn’t relent, he redirects. “I’m sorry - I’m sorry,” he sputters, hands clasping the edge of the bench striving to maintain balance.

“‘You’re sorry. You’re sorry’… You’re always ‘sorry’… Tell me, Emil. Tell me what you wanted to say in the voicemail.”

Emil strains to keep calm despite the hand clenching him digging deeper.

“I... I think -”

Blinding light cracks through Emil like lightning. It fractalizes, burning itself into every nerve as a loud cry bolts from agonized lungs. He tries to inhale and struggles. Gasps skirt through restricted passageways in a desperate attempt to breathe.

“Tell me what you mean, not what you think…”

“The voicemail...” Emil labors to speak. “I didn't mean it...”

“Then why did you leave it?”

“I'm stupid...” Emil cowers, choking back tears. “I was drunk - I’m stupid. I, I - I wasn't thinking.”

“You're right. You’re stupid, and you don't think. You're also a terrible liar… You wanted my attention? You got it. You got me for the rest of the night.”

Emil whines as he's shaken.

“Tell me what you wanted to say, Emil. Go on. Don't be shy. I'm all ears...”

“I think...” Emil scowls, trying to swallow, but chokes on saliva and mucus. “I think we should break up…” he whispers.

“What was that?”

“I - think we should break up…”

“Say what you mean, Emil. Tell me what you want…”

Tears flow down Emil’s cheeks. “I want to break up…”

☎

“Emil?”

Emil snaps to. Everything’s blurry. His eyes sting and his chest hurts...

“Emil?”

He can’t respond.

He can't breathe.

A sharp sensation runs through his hand. He jerks back, clasping his throat, gasping for air. He swivels about in confusion, left then right. Something catches his eye. He flinches, honing in on the piano. There's dust missing...

“.... Emil?”

That voice.

It's not him...

Emil turns to his right.

Spamton’s cowering before him in absolute horror.

“Spamton...”

“Emil, what’s going on…”

Emil swallows, recoiling in discomfort. “A moment. I was having a moment; I’m sorry…”

“A m-moment?”

“Yea s’just - umm… They happen sometimes,” Emil forces a laugh. But it irritates his throat, making his expression sour. “But you, you don’t have to worry about it, ok?” he claims with a less than convincing grin. “S-sss-sometimes, heh... I’m in a bad place... I -”' Emil flinches again, his attention darting to his right periphery and then back to Spamton. “Bad moments…” he murmurs. “Bad moments; they - they, sometimes… They go away…”

“You’re scaring me, Emil…”

Fuck...

“Please - no no no… Spamton, I’m sorry, I -”

Shut up.

“Emil, it’s ok,” Spamton reassures. “But I need to know what’s going on…”

“I’m - I was having a moment is all,” Emil murmurs.

“I understand that but I don't understand why.” Spamton squints, giving his head a slight turn to the side. “You started to tell me something then froze. You stopped breathing...”

Not again.

Not again.

…

Tell him.

He deserves that much.

“I, uh - get antsy sometimes, and,” Emil licks his lips. “That's why I - why this happens. Sometimes,” Emil gestures to his throat and chest with a quiver in his voice. “I take medication for it though, but I guess I forgot a day,” he jests, sporting a smile on the verge of collapse. “It's normally - it's not that bad; it's not bad. I've just been having a hard time with it lately.”

“Because of me?”

“No,” Emil denies with haste.

“You don't have to lie. I'm not upset,” Spamton acknowledges with a timid titter, picking at the left side of his cardigan. “I know I've been a pain.”

Emil rests his hands on Spamton's shoulders, looking him square in the eye. “No, Spamton it's - this was before you. I'm nervous is all. It's been a while since I've -” Emil pauses, pressing his index finger and thumb together and shaking his hand before going mute.

They sit in uncomfortable silence. Spamton squirms, leans forward, then back. “Was…” he hesitates. “This the guy at work?”

Emil furrows his brow in confusion.

“... The restraining order?”

Emil pauses then looks down, pressing the tip of his tongue on his lower canine. He turns away, retracting his hands, clenching them between his legs.

“Sorry - never mind...” Spamton recants with remorse. “I shouldn’t have asked; that’s not my business.”

“No, it’s -”

Tell him.

“The guy I was seeing, he...” Emil swallows, tapping his thumb on his knuckle, before digging the claw in. “It was going south for a while, so…” Emil shrugs with a smile before going slack.

Spamton opens his mouth, falters, then continues. “Going south?”

Emil stiffens. There’s a keen look in Spamton’s eye. An awareness that he's holding back.

Tell him.

“He was -” Emil expels a sharp huff. “Incompatible, you know?”

“Yea...” Spamton acknowledges with reverence. "Must've been rough...”

“Yea…”

Tell him.

A sharp sensation spurs Emil's throat. Knuckles go numb as claws dig deeper. “It’s ok. It’s just - getting back on the saddle a second time’s kinda’ scary,” he jests.

Coward.

This is the most collected and intense Emil's ever seen Spamton. Large spectacles magnify the alert attentiveness glistening in his ruby eyes. Off-white eyebrows furl upwards and there’s a visible pain in his expression. He's leaning forward with his head somewhat cocked to the side as though pleading to know. Pleading to be let in. Yet Emil can’t help but feel like he is talking to a child. Beneath Spamton’s adult veneer and understanding is a fervent innocence and zeal. He’s tense with anticipation as if awaiting command.

And here’s Emil; exploiting that through weasley wording and lies. He's ill and broken. Sullied and bane. He's damaging him. No matter his approach, he's damaging him.

Rip the roots.

“I...”

Don't grow back.

“I was - ”

Never grow back.

Spamton perks up.

“It didn’t end well...” Emil winces, swallowing in shame. “Comes with the territory sometimes,” he laughs breathlessly.

“When was this?” Spamton asks with a keen tone.

“While ago.” Emil swipes aside a bang, giving his eyes a covert wipe in the process. “Before you started in the mail room and well before working on the advertising floor."

“Still hurts, I guess...” Spamton notes softly.

Still hurts.

“Well, that's the thing with - with breakups. Getting over it... It's not straightforward. It’s more of an uphill process, you know? Keep pushin’,” Emil points upward with an index finger, forcing a feeble laugh. “Day by day, but - it'll, it'll go away.” He attests with a subtle bob of his head, biting his lower lip. “Someday…”

Spamton leans in again. He doesn't say anything, but Emil knows what's on his mind. That look is all too evident. Magnified by those round spectacles, peering into him with scrupulous inspection.

“I’m so sorry, Emil…”

“Don't apologize. Breakups happen. It was a while ago...” Emil waves off. “There’s good and bad days, and I -”

“He shouldn't have done that.”

Emil braces. “... What?”

“He shouldn't have done that,” Spamton repeats. The lamp’s light catches his ruby eyes making them burn like embers.

“... It was just a breakup, Spamton...” Emil maintains with shivering breaths.

“You were freaking out. You weren't breathing, Emil...” Spamton asserts. “That doesn't happen over a simple breakup. Whatever he did he shouldn’t have.”

“He didn’t do anything…” Emil heaves in agitation.

“Emil,” Spamton counters softly, “I’ve never dated, but -”

“I told you it’s just nerves,” Emil continues. “Whatever you’re implying didn’t happen.”

“Emil, I’m trying to help…”

“You’re not…”

“Emil -“

“Look, I told you enough; can we drop it…”

“… Enough?”

“Everything,” Emil snaps.

“Listen -”

“No... Please” Emil breaks. “Please don't... pretend to know something you know nothing about... I know you want to help, I appreciate it, but -”

“I do know…” Spamton declares, pounding his palm against the left side of his chest with indignation.

“Yea?”

“Yea. Because it happened to me.”

Emil pulls back.

“What did that person say about the ‘funny’ story I told…”

Emil shakes his head. “He said… He said he saw you the day it happened. That… That it was more than a slap. I thought -”

“I was delivering a package..." Spamton explains with a tight tone, jutting his lower jaw. “He never liked me knocking, but he had to sign, so I kept knocking. He opened the door, shouting... Threw a bottle at me; hitting me in the eye - knocking me to the ground. He picked me up by my neck and slammed me against a wall. Dropped me… Kicked me again and again… Called me an abomination…” Spamton snarls, his bottom lip shaking. “He only stopped because someone stepped in... That building, I - I couldn’t… Any of them…” Spamton looks at his hand. Frayed threads lay within his palm. “They deemed me ‘unfit’ to be a postman. And I am.” His voice breaks through a small hiccup. He rests his hand on his lap, clenching it. His attention darts to Emil. Ruby eyes appear deep crimson, glistening from unshed tears. "He shouldn’t have done that...”

Emil’s jaw shakes as he tries to respond but can’t. Each breath becomes more labored as he heaves. All he can do is return a blank stare at the man before him. Darkness descends as he clasps his eyes, desperate to shut out the voices. The shame. To no longer remain. Choked breaths mutate into restrained sobs. They simmer behind clenched teeth, causing Emil to retch as spittle foams through. It’s then that he’s pulled from the abyss.

Emil gasps as Spamton wraps his arms around him in a firm embrace. The taste of salt pools in his mouth as tears and mucus flow downward. Sobs aching to break free from their restraints burst forth as he heaves, collapsing onto Spamton.

Spamton’s a little thing, yet he anchors himself, retaining Emil’s weight atop him. Emil clasps the edge of the bench with one hand as the other digs into his face.

“I’m -” Emil coughs and gasps, drowning in tears. “I’m s-”

“It’s ok.”

Emil shakes his head with vigor.

“It’s ok.”

Emil falls limp into Spamton's chest. A leg thuds to the ground as he slumps. Hands feverishly wrap themselves around Spamton with a tight grip. Spamton arches his back, flexing to maintain balance as he braces a hand on the bench, and the other around Emil’s head.

Nothing more is said.

Nothing more needs to be said.

Chapter 12

Notes:

Thanks for the long wait, everyone!

Life’s been pretty busy in not the best of ways, so this took a while to get out.

Also, did more Spamton doodles loosely inspired by this chapter. They’re NSFW, so be forewarned when clicking.

🔞: https://frimplefram.blogspot.com/2024/02/spamton-smut-dump-1.html

Thanks for the kudos and comments as always!

Many situations in Spamton's life sent him spiraling down paths of dread and panic. Yet now, despite the severity of the problem, despite being out of his depth, he's calm. Maybe it's a fawn response. The awareness that there isn't much he can do beyond continuing to hold the man who's all but collapsed into him. Maybe it's the strange comfort of seeing a mirror of himself in Emil. That awareness he isn't alone in his pain of being. Although shame at acknowledging such comfort nips at him.

In any case, Spamton retains his grip atop the piano bench as delayed gasps sputter from Emil. A few minutes pass. Emil's still slouched atop Spamton, although he regains enough composure to maintain more of his weight, much to Spamton’s relief.

Despite Spamton’s ease, a new fear creeps through his lungs as he clears them. “Emil?” He whispers.

“Yea,” Emil responds with a scratchy voice. It's almost mute from the mucus and stress put upon it.

“How you feelin’?”

Emil swallows and then expels a deep breath. “Ok...” he responds, clearing his throat with a pained cough. He presses his hand against it while suppressing a small moan.

“I'll get some water,” Spamton suggests, releasing Emil and turning to descend from the bench.

“No -”

“You need water.”

“No, you’re -“ Emil winces in pain, getting up and hobbling towards the kitchen. “The glasses are in the top cabinet.”

Spamton bites his lower lip in embarrassment as Emil passes.

Emil grabs a glass, turns on the faucet, fills it, then takes a few sips. With each swallow, Emil's shoulders rise and his head bobs downward. His spare hand rests above his clavicle as though vying to keep himself from retching. Once done, he sets the glass down and peers into the sink with a slack expression.

Spamton remains near the piano unsure of what to do or say.

“I’m sorry,” Emil apologizes, still staring into the sink. “Sorry about what I said earlier... About you and -”

“It’s ok,” Spamton reassures.

“No,” Emil counters with a tinge of anger. “It isn't ok...”

Spamton approaches Emil. Cheeks flush with a soft, rosy hue as the discrepancy in their height grows. He tilts his head upward and straightens his posture, striving to portray confidence. “Don’t apologize. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Emil snarls, clenching the rim of the sink. “You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve this. Any of this, I’m -” Emil clamps his mouth and eyes shut.

“Not doing ok. I got that.”

Emil’s finger taps the sink's edge as his left leg shakes. He heaves, looking upward before hanging his head again. “I’m messed up...”

“Yea. You are,” Spamton jests. … That wasn't funny... “But you’re a lot of other things too. Good things. Great things,” Spamton adds with haste. He looks over his shoulder at the living room and then back to Emil. “Hey. Night’s still young. Wanna’ watch TV? I’d still like to do that with you.”

Emil remains slack.

Spamton makes his way toward Emil until they're a few inches apart. He stares at a bottle of soap as he rests his hand on the small of Emil's back, causing Emil to tense. “Come on. Let’s end tonight on a good note.”

After a small bit of pressure, Emil relents his hold on the sink, giving in to Spamton's pull.

They make their way to the couch and sit. Spamton eyes the remote and picks it up, turning the TV on. “Anything in mind?”

Emil shakes his head. “You choose...” he relents with a hoarse voice.

“Dunno’ if that’s a good idea,” Spamton chuffs, then recoils, realizing how insensitive that sounds. He opens his mouth to apologize, thinks better of it, then flips through the channels. “… You said you have cable?”

“Yea,” Emil confirms with a vacant stare.

“Whoa…” Spamton keeps flipping. “There’s so many. How do you choose anything?”

“I don’t watch a lot of TV,” Emil responds still detached.

“Then why have a TV at all?” Spamton smiles, desperate to cheer Emil up.

“Sometimes I watch soap operas.”

A small laugh escapes Spamton. “You like soap operas?”

“A bit.”

“Huh...” Spamton flips through a few more channels before landing on one that appears to be playing a soap opera. After a few minutes, however, it turns out to be a romance movie. “Do you like romance flicks?”

Emil doesn't respond.

Spamton opens his mouth, sighs, then closes it.

They watch the movie in relative silence. It’s typical for a romance drama. The lead woman, a cybernetic mustelid, is thrust into the most expected of dilemmas. She either marries a successful entrepreneur or follows her heart, traversing the world with a tramp.

“‘Dunno what that’s like,” Spamton smirks glancing at Emil, remarking on the woman's predicament. “Wouldn’t know anything about it.” After a few scenes pass, he continues. “I mean, I dunno' what's worse. The stress of multiple suitors or nobody wanting you. Wait - I know what the last one's like,” he murmurs. “Well -” he catches himself, then goes quiet. A sharp pain rises in his chest as the silence grows. “Should I go home?” he queries with a quaking breath.

“No,” Emil responds, his tone hazy. “I'm -” a pained expression overcomes him as he rests his hand against his forehead. “... Embarrassed...”

Spamton turns to Emil. “I get that,” he acknowledges with a gentle tone.

“He never yelled, you know,” Emil continues. Vacant. Distant. “Even when he was mad his voice got - softer, quieter, while I was getting hysterical...” He shakes his head as an unsettling smile splinters through. His head bobs a few times before he wipes his face, sinking further into the couch, and looking upward.

“You weren’t being hysterical, Emil.”

Emil continues staring at the ceiling, his mouth slightly ajar.

“I know you don’t think it, but -“ Spamton raises his hand toward his cardigan but abstains. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”

Emil turns to Spamton, his brow furrowed.

“I mean - I've never cried in front of anyone. Like you said, it's embarrassing... But - it would be nice. To do that with someone and not have them mind. Just - be there for you.” Spamton taps the remote as if reminiscing a time gone by. “I’ve - never told the whole thing. Only Parts. Like it was a joke,” he chuffs before frowning. “No one asked about me, why I was gone for so long. When I came back they stared. Saw I had a limp. That my eye was still a bit red. I didn’t want to scare anyone. I thought...”' he lingers, “I’m glad it was you I got to tell.” He turns to Emil, sporting a solemn smile.

Emil's attention diverts to the cushion of the couch. “I wore makeup or called out,” he whispers, wetting his bottom lip. “I wasn't good at first. Lots of stains on the cuff of my shirt or keyboard. I'd lie and say it was from me changing out the cyan in the printer. I didn’t like calling out so I got good at it.” A soft smirk slips through.

Sharp breaths leave Spamton as indignation ignites within him.

“Imagine - me wearing makeup,” Emil chuckles before his expression turns sour. “Imagine me wearing makeup…” The bottom of his lip quivers as he nocks his tongue atop his lower canine. He swivels to Spamton. The violet blue in his eyes is gone. All that remains are pits of black full of fear. “Can you stay tonight?”

“Of course,” Spamton says without a second's hesitation.

“I know it’s -”

“Emil, I’ll stay,” Spamton reassures, scooting in, placing his hand on Emil’s thigh.

Emil grabs Spamton’s hand, interlocking their fingers. “Thanks…” he sighs.

Spamton leans on Emil’s shoulder. This is the closest they've ever been, the closest he's been to anyone. He can hear Emil's heartbeat. This experience... It's - strange yet serene. It's somber.

Addisons rarely talk about personal affairs. If they do, it's as though they're trying to pitch the perfect outlook and life. After all, no one wants to hire or buy from a sad salesman. There's no comfort in knowing the person pitching a product is as fucked as you. That what you're consuming doesn't alleviate the melancholy entrenched within. No... Such emotions are relegated to dramas and soap operas. Even medications for depression or anxiety avoid such wording. Instead, playful euphemisms litter the bottles with smiling faces. They hint at the user's distress while simultaneously mocking them for even being in such a state.

Shame is a consistent state of being for Spamton. Shame he isn't like other addisons. Shame that he isn't put together, boisterous, and confident. Though determined, he's masking desperation. He's the puppeteer of himself for the society he has to live in. Putting on a smile and show as his resolve splinters every day. But now that's changing. He's no longer alone. He hates finding solace from the troubles of the man beside him. The man clasping his hand. But in this clasp is a shared connection. A line to something he thought he'd never have. And for now, at least, the shame is gone.

There's little Spamton can offer in the way of experience and prestige, but he can offer the empathy of knowing. And that, in his mind, is special. Because from what he can tell, this is something unique to them and only them.

☎

Strange sounds dance around Spamton’s subconscious like static. Soft, remote, consistent. Slivers of light come spark into being as he opens his eyes. The TV’s sideways. He’s on something warm. Very warm. He looks up and sees Emil. He’s asleep. His head is slumped in his hand and cushioned by his long curls. His mouth is open too where Spamton can make out the whites of his teeth. He looks peaceful.

Spamton glances at the TV, a new movie’s playing. He turns to the clock. It’s past ten. He sits up with care, so as to not disturb Emil, despite having to wake him regardless. “Emil,” he whispers, caressing his thigh.

“Spamton…” Emil moans, arching his back and bucking his hips upward.

A warm sensation swells in Spamton’s core. He bites his lip and removes his hand, clasping his own thigh in an attempt to redirect his titillation. “Emil,” he says with a sterner voice.

Emil’s thick lashes part and he winces as his eyes adjust to the light. He gives an absent, befuddled scan of his surroundings before spotting Spamton. “Hey.”

“Hey," Spamton raises his hand, giving a small wave.

“Guess we didn’t finish whatever that was,” Emil chuffs with a nod toward the TV as he yawns.

“Yea,” Spamton yawns in return. “We both fell out, huh?"

“Yea. Must’ve been a boring flick,” Emil yawns again. “That’s ok. I had a pretty good dream,” he notes as though the prior events were a distant memory.

“What did you dream about?” Spamton asks, his interest piqued.

Emil's eyes dart down, back to Spamton, then down again. “I was dreaming about you,” he replies with a tired yet sheepish smile.

A flush of red blooms across Spamton’s face. He clenches his thigh harder. “Oh,” he gulps. “I’m glad it was good then.” Although haggard, there's a sensual nature to Emil's reclined pose. Emil's sweater is rather loose, but Spamton has seen him shirtless. The mere thought of what Emil looks like shirtless in such a pose sends a shiver down his spine. “What was it about?” he blurts, his carnal thoughts getting the better of him.

Emil sits up a little. His demeanor becomes more alert. A hint of playfulness and concern lingers in his soft, scratchy voice. “Do you really want to know?”

Spamton squirms. “Well, w-when you say it that way...”

"I dreamed you were taking me.”

Spamton leans back, glances to the side, then back to Emil. “Taking you? Taking you where?”

“Physically.”

“Oh.” A sudden heat overwhelms Spamton. His breathing becomes audible as he crosses his arms against his pelvis, pressing down on his lap. Fuck... What is he doing? Why is he being shy? They are on the couch, the lights are off and there is nothing but the cool glow of the TV. If anything says, go for it, it's this. “Did you... Did you like it?”

“Yea,” Emil replies, his voice becoming a hint more hoarse. “Too bad it was only a dream.”

A hushed wine simmers in the back of Spamton's throat as he leans forward. The pressure in his core strains against his pants, exciting him further. “It doesn't have to be. A dream. I - I, I bathed,” he sputters, heart racing. “I wanted to look nice but, I - if...” Overwhelmed, Spamton's breathing becomes erratic.

“Hey,” Emil places his hand on Spamton's back, causing the whine to escape him. “Hey,” he says more gently. "It's ok. I’m sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out.”

Spamton's hand slides under his glasses and then toward his mouth. The elation and edginess of ecstasy deteriorate into embarrassment.

“Shit; I'm sorry...” Emil apologizes, rubbing Spamton's back as he scoots closer. “I'd like to do that. Believe me - I would. But we should get used to being around each other. When that time comes I want you to enjoy it. Without the nerves.” He licks his lips in reflection. “Don't think you ever have to because I want to.”

“But I -” Spamton bites his lip.

“What?”

Spamton shakes his head curling in on himself.

Emil sighs in rumination. “I have an idea. How about we practice talking about what we like? Sexually speaking. Is that ok?”

“Why?”

“Well, if we both get comfortable talking about what we like it'll make doing it easier. You know; when that time comes.”

Spamton peaks from his periphery at Emil then rubs his hands on his thighs. “Ok. So how do we, umm... Do we just...”

“We’ll take turns asking questions,” Emil explains. “Can be anything. Positions, fetishes... Whatever fits your fancy. But if I ask something that makes you uncomfortable, we skip it. Sound good?”

Spamton’s nods.

“Great,” Emil smiles, rubbing Spamton's back. “Ok, you first; ask me anything.”

Despite agreeing, Spamton feels as though he's noosed himself. Here he is, a man of similar age to Emil, ignorant of the most basal aspects of sex. He never procured any online or physical material that would widen his knowledge beyond a flirty magazine or two that were scarcely sexual. All he knows is from the inevitable exploration that comes from touching one's self. Even then it's primarily a form of stress relief. Any sexual titillation caused by thoughts of someone is suppressed to not feel shame afterward.

A sigh of desperation sprints from Spamton as he strains to think. With proper wording, maybe he can mask his limited knowledge. “Ok...” he huffs. “What’s, uh - your favorite position?”

“Starting there, huh?” Emil smirks. “Hmm... Every position I've tried is decent enough if you know how to angle yourself. But when it comes to what really gets me off it's missionary and cowboy.”

Spamton nods in acknowledgment despite not knowing what either of those terms means much to his embarrassment. “What do you like about them?” he pries, hoping further description will fill him.

“Well, uh...” Emil laughs with a bashful grin. Long lashes partially obscure his violet-blue eyes, making them appear more sensual. They shimmer brightly from the cool reflection of the TV as though illuminated by the neon sky. He licks his lip and then bites it as he does a coy tilt of his head. “Being penetrated at those angles just feels really good. Especially when the guy doing me’s locked in. And I’m a cuddler,” he notes with a twinkle in his eye. “Hugging someone close and feeling the heat of their breath against my neck? It’s -” he stretches with a hiss as his hand slides against his thigh before settling on his knee. “Yea…” After a moment or so passes, he turns to Spamton. “What about you? What’s your favorite position?”

To Spamton's dismay, Emil's response didn’t reveal what he was hoping it would. Worse still he's getting excited again... “I, umm - well, I don’t know if you remember but, I’ve...” he slicks back his crest. “I’ve never been with anyone so I don’t know.”

“Right,” Emil acknowledges nonplussed. “I should rephrase that...” He clicks his tongue, looking upward before returning his attention to Spamton. “What’s your favorite way to get off then?”

Spamton stiffens and juts his jaw forward, averting his gaze and furrowing his brow.

“Should I ask something else?” Emil offers with apprehension, aware of Spamton’s unease.

“No, I just - um, I’m trying to think of a way to explain it...” Spamton clarifies, his face becoming hot.

“Ok,” Emil acquiesces. “Take your time. There's no pressure.”

Say it, Spamton tells himself. Just say it. He bites his lip, breathing heavily with his eyes clamped shut.

“Hey,” Emil whispers. “You don't have to answer.”

“A pillow,” Spamton blurts.

“What?”

“A pillow. I - like to use a pillow…”

“... Oh.”

“I know that’s - I normally do it in the shower because there’s less mess. But sometimes I’m…” Spamton stammers, striving to remain calm. “I use a pillow because, you know, it feels good. It feels like someone's...” he glances at Emil; Emil’s expression is indiscernible. Spamton hangs his head in his hand, shielding his eyes in embarrassment.

“Like someone's what?”

“... Like someone's with me...” Spamton feels like he’s boiling over. Every fiber of his being is twitching. Begging for him to get up and leave without saying a word.

“Never tried it. Bet that feels really good,” Emil finally responds. There's a strange focus in his tone. “Sounds kinda' hot too.”

Spamton winces, pressing his index finger against his upper lip and his thumb underneath his chin. “You don’t have to be nice, Emil. I know it’s pathetic…”

“I’m not being nice I’m being honest,” Emil clarifies, his tone shifting again as well as his weight, causing Spamton to open his eyes and look his way.

Emil’s reclined on the couch. His right arm lies atop the headrest and his left arm is on the armrest. His right leg is now folded on the couch while his left leg remains firm on the ground. There’s an intensity in his stare. That same intensity Spamton saw in the office before they kissed. “How do you do it?” Emil asks.

Spamton gulps. He crosses his arms, resting them on his groin. “I -” he shakes his head. “It’s, you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“I…” Spamton hangs his head, biting his lip. “You’re the one who’s had sex,” he diverts. “You know how it’s done....”

“What I mean is I don't know how you do it. I wanna' know that. But you don’t have to tell me. It’s your turn anyway. Ask me something else.”

A tight knot tumbles in Spamton’s core as he feels that part of him pressing against his arms again. “One way I do it is, I straddle it, the pillow, between my legs. And, uh, my pants - they’re - I don’t have pants on so... I, you know... Rub against it or hold the corners and, umm…” He wipes his forehead. “I hold them against my, you know… So it’s tight and I thrust until…” He tucks his chin into his chest and spreads his hand against his left breast then clenches it. “I finish. That’s - that’s how I like to do it…”

Spamton peaks at Emil’s groin. Although Emil’s still clothed, he can see it’s swollen; completely engorged from excitement. Spamton turns away, swallows, then builds the gumption to look at Emil.

There’s a pained want in Emil's expression. A carnal need for relief. But to Spamton's surprise, he speaks nothing further. Those violet-blue eyes shimmering from the TV's glow remain fixed, intent, yet reserved. Emil's leaving the next move up to him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you…” Spamton goes mute as his gaze diverts to Emil's groin then back to his own lap.

“No it’s a good thing,” Emil smiles through shuddering breaths. “I like when a partner gets me hard.”

Partner.

Spamton's hard himself; rock hard. Each heartbeat causes his cock to pulse and swell, brushing against its confines desperate to be freed. Now he has to choose. Either he says nothing, letting them suffer the agony of being on edge and enduring the embarrassment of that, or he could do - something.

“The pillow thing?” Spamton labors to say through hitched breaths. “I’d like to do that.”

“Yea?” Emil’s voice breaks with an obvious jolt of interest.

“Yea...” Spamton nods with vigor, “to you...”

“… Are you sure?” Emil asks, his tone becoming more serious.

Spamton averts his gaze and nods.

“Hey - look at me,” Emil requests. Spamton does as told and he’s taken aback by Emil’s stern stare. “Remember what I said, you -”

“I’m sure,” Spamton doubles down despite his timid tenor. “I want to do this.”

“You’re nervous,” Emil points out. “You don’t -”

“I’m always nervous, Emil…” Spamton counters with a hint of agitation more at himself than at him. “If I don’t do this now I’ll feel worse and it’ll be harder for me later. For both of us…”

“Ok,” Emil relents with soft submission, lowering his head while retaining his attention on Spamton. He wets the bottom of his lip then bites it as he exhales. “Tell me what to do.”

Chapter 13

Notes:

Thanks for the recent kudos and comments, ya'll!

Was itching to write this chapter and I hope it delivers as I intended.

Also, did some updated doodles of Emil for those who are interested! Last time I drew him was around two months ago. It was my first attempt at him so I think this is a much needed update lol.

🔞: https://frimplefram.blogspot.com/2024/02/emil.html

PS: read my comment in this chapter for any who are interested in the mechanics of addison sex lol.

Even though Emil is reclined before Spamton awaiting his move, he's dumbfounded. Spamton's only ever used a pillow. Pillows are malleable be it on a couch or bed. Emil’s couch, although far more spacious than his, only has so much room for two people. All of these variables cause a flurry of shame to smother him. What's he going to do? Hump Emil until he comes like some pathetic animal? Does he have to take off his pants? Does Emil? Should he butter him up beforehand? As if he has the charm...

Spamton gulps as his awareness of his ignorance rushes forth like a barreling train. Despite the anxiety, he stares at Emil intently, praying to detect any hint from him of what to do. But to Spamton's dismay, Emil gives none. He only stares back, waiting for Spamton to act.

Spamton crawls towards Emil with a tremble, who spreads his legs, allowing him more room to maneuver. Shaking and sweaty hands rest on each side of Emil’s hips. Spamton's right leg anchors itself on the floor and his left leg rests underneath Emil's thigh. Although comfortable, it becomes evident Spamton can’t even reach Emil’s lips to make out with him. He shrinks in on himself. Fuck he feels stupid… He’s small. He’s too small…

Emil, sensing Spamton's distress and predicament, takes his right arm, pulling Spamton toward him. Spamton gives in to Emil's lead, anchoring both legs at Emil’s sides and sitting. Emil hisses as Spamton’s bottom caresses his groin causing Spamton to tense and exhale briskly as he steadies himself. “Let’s kiss for a bit, ok?” Emil whispers hoarsely, clearing his throat.

Spamton gives a swift yet subtle nod while leaning down, embracing Emil.

A moderate moan reverberates between the two as they kiss, then part, kiss, then part. As Spamton falls into a lull, Emil strokes his jaw. Spamton flinches upon being pulled even closer. A jolt of excitement rushes through Spamton. Thick white lashes flutter at the surprise of Emil’s tongue entering his mouth. It’s slimy, expected of a tongue, but sensual. It moves about titillating areas of Spamton’s mouth he didn’t know could feel that way. There’s an ebb and flow of Emil’s embrace. He leans in, caressing Spamton’s lips and tongue with the most delicate touch before pulling back, sometimes nipping Spamton’s bottom lip in doing so.

Spamton leans in further. Sharp breaths warm the space between them, fogging up his glasses as he becomes ravenous for more. It’s then that Emil’s hands clasp his sides, they slide down toward his hips, anchoring themselves at the base. Spamton gasps as the unfamiliar pressure sends an intense sensation to his core. His back arches, and he leans upward. Emil pulls him back down with a bite of his lip as his hands glide toward Spamton’s belt and undo the buckle.

Experienced digits maneuver the buttons and zipper until they come across his briefs. Emil shimmies Spamton’s clothing down his hips, just enough that Spamton's able to fully express himself. A brisk chill from the exposure causes Spamton unease. He starts to whisper Emil’s name, but before he can utter a word, Emil's hand is around him.

A sharp cry sprints from Spamton. His back arches as Emil clasps his cock at the bulb's base. Spamton covers his mouth, attempting to dampen his moans, but fails. Hips thrust at a frenzied pace as Emil’s grip tightens around the base, and his other hand grips his shaft with a lighter hold. Feathers shoot upward along Spamton’s spine. Teeth clench down as hot air seeps from fevered lungs. A muffled thud of Spamton's foot falling atop the carpet becomes lost in the frenzy as he buries himself into Emil. Taut hands clutch Emil’s shoulders in desperation to control himself.

Guttural growls and worried whines ricochet around them as Spamton’s thrusting intensifies. The couch rocks back and forth against the wood floor. His control deteriorates. “Emil…” Spamton mewls through accelerating, stilted pants. It’s then that Emil applies pressure to the tip.

A deafening cry breaks from Spamton. He loses all semblance of control. Franetic thrusts pulsate from his hips until he crumbles into frail fractals of consciousness. Emil's breath against his face. His hands around his cock. Emil's bulge rubbing against Spamton's entrance with each thrust. It's too much. Spamton's whole being reverberates like the kick of a drum as he approaches climax and then seizes. He gasps for air. His heart. His heart is beating. Breaking. He's breaking.

A few meager, sputtering thrusts are all Spamton has left to give before collapsing atop Emil.

He’s spent.

He’s sore.

He’s satiated.

Heavy pants fill the air upon emerging from the fog of ecstasy. As it clears, familiar sounds seep into his awareness. The late-night infomercials on the TV. The faint tick of the clock on the wall. Emil panting below him, his hands anchoring him in place.

Spamton strains to raise his hips to better allow his cock to rescind, and once it does, he plops back down. They remain together. Panting and holding one another despite the fluids that were surely staining their clothes.

Emil's delicate hand graces Spamton’s crest as they take in this serene yet awkward moment. “You ok?” he whispers.

A prick of anxiety causes Spamton to bite his lip. “Yea,” he responds meekly. “I’m ok…”

“You sure?” Emil asks again, taking note of Spamton's tone, worry lacing his inquiry. “I -”

“I -” Spamton sighs, closing his eyes, relenting to the weariness. “I didn’t expect that. That to go that way...”

Spamton feels Emil’s chest tighten, his hand halting at the nape of his neck. “I should’ve asked…” Emil murmurs.

“No,” Spamton reassures.

Emil shakes his head. “You're new to this. I should've asked...”

“I’m not a kid, Emil. I don’t need to be babied.”

“Should I stop petting you then?” Emil asks with sincerity.

“Ok,” Spamton chuffs. “You can baby me a little…”

“Ok,” Emil chuckles in return.

Spamton closes his eyes for a minute or two, catching his breath. “I’ve never... That’s never been that intense for me."

“Should… I take that as a compliment?” Emil asks, the worry seeping through again.

Spamton gives a curt nod. “I feel silly though.”

Emil’s petting stops. “Why?”

“Because I don’t... I’ve never been able to do that. I -” Spamton clutches Emil’s sweater. “I don’t know anything, Emil…”

“That’s ok. It's a learning process.”

“No, about - anything. Not even myself. I didn’t know what to do. You just - took over.”

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s not your fault I’m dumb…”

“You're not dumb…” Emil takes a deep breath and shifts from rubbing Spamton’s crest to resting his hand on his back. “This'll sound crazy, but... Before I saw porn and before I was with anyone, I didn’t masturbate.”

Spamton blinks a few times before rising, turning to Emil. “At all?”

Emil shakes his head and raises his brows. “No.”

Spamton glances down, biting his lip, then returns his attention to Emil. “What… What did you do then?”

Emil swallows, wincing as he does. “I didn’t do anything. I just - waited it out.”

“Sounds terrible,” Spamton blurts, turning toward the TV. “Sorry...”

“It was,” Emil smiles before shifting to a more stoic tone. “Then, I met a guy. Bartender. Chatty fellow. One day I was taking a shower and I had thoughts...” Emil swallows again. “That was the first time I touched myself in that way. Even though I knew what I was doing wasn't bad, it felt wrong. Perverted even… Having those thoughts about someone and doing that. Especially when I found out he didn’t see me the same. Or any guy for that matter... Felt like something was wrong with me for a long time. Didn’t know anyone else that felt that kind of shame.”

“I do.” Spamton swallows, his attention retained on the TV. “I only do it when I need to catch a break. But then...” he goes quiet.

“Then what?”

A tightness constricts Spamton's chest. “We had that phone call… I had fleeting thoughts about you before that but never acted on them. But after that call…” he furrows his brow. “Even when I was mad, I - had to. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. But even then, even now I feel... I feel bad about it. Doing it...”

Emil rubs Spamton’s back.

“How did you get over it?”

Emil clutches Spamton's cardigan, clearing his throat. “... We should change out of these clothes, what do you think?”

Spamton looks up, furrowing his brow. Emil’s smiling, but tension lingers in the corners of his eyes. “Yea. It’s pretty late,” he murmurs, sitting up. “Can I borrow a shirt?”

“Sure,” Emil complies, standing to stretch. “Come on,” he gestures, making his way to the bedroom.

☎

Spamton's never been to someone’s place let alone their bedroom. He halts at the door frame, watching Emil rummage through the dresser. “Here,” he signals, tossing Spamton a t-shirt. “Try that on.”

Spamton holds the shirt to his body. It’s large. Likely too large as the width extends past his shoulders. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Of course not,” Emil grins. “There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet,” he notes. “Unused.”

Spamton makes his way to the bathroom, turning on the light. He winces due to the light's brightness, but once his eyes adjust, he inspects his clothes. Much to his surprise, there’s not much residue on his cardigan. Either he didn’t ejaculate much, or it’s all on Emil…

Spamton shakes the uncomfortable thought from his mind as he undresses. He folds his clothes, setting them atop the toilet seat, then puts on the shirt Emil gave him. It's so loose the rim almost exceeds his knees and the collar slips to one side, almost falling off his shoulder. It'll have to do.

Out of curiosity, he lifts the fabric to his nose, giving it a quick sniff. It smells like detergent and Emil. He takes a longer whiff, smiling at the scent.

Spamton opens the medicine cabinet. Much to his dismay, the toothbrush is on the very top shelf.

He turns to the toilet to get some leverage to reach it when something catches his eye.

They’re medication bottles. Several of them, around four or so. One he recognizes as medication for anxiety on account he looked into getting a prescription until he saw the cost. Another is for migraines. The other two he can't discern. Spamton leans in to get a closer look.

“Need help?”

Spamton twitches, taken aback by Emil’s sudden appearance. “Yes please.”

Emil scoots through, grabs the toothbrush, and rips it from its wrapper. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

As they brush, it’s then that Spamton gets a good look at Emil, and to his surprise, he isn't dreaming. Emil's toned. Fit. That much is discernible from his face alone. But he always wears looser business casual attire. The extent to which he was fit wasn’t evident until now.

Spamton marvels at the physique of the man beside him. The man who wantonly pleasured him moments ago. Knowing that someone of such beauty takes an interest in him gives Spamton a paradoxical feeling of dignity and distress. But he chooses to focus on the former. He takes in every element of Emil's being when he notices something unexpected.

Scars, several of them, litter Emil's body. Most are minuscule and covered by feathers. They're only noticeable due to Emil being shirtless, their proximity, and the stark lighting. Three prominent ones are visible on the exterior of his left wrist, and one long vertical one on the interior. But it's what's on his face that gives Spamton pause. What starts as a small nick on his jaw’s exterior extends to a deep diagonal gash along the interior.

Emil glances at Spamton, spitting in the sink. “You ok?”

Spamton nods, resumes brushing, then spits.

Emil takes out two paper cups and a roll of floss. He snaps off a piece, handing it to Spamton. Once flossed and rinsed, he pops open the pill bottles and refills his paper cup. He labors to swallow, likely on account of his sore throat. Once done, Emil takes the two paper cups and tosses them. “You sure you’re ok?” he asks again, aware of Spamton’s intense inspection.

Spamton shakes his head. “Yea.”

Emil turns to Spamton, fidgeting his index finger with his other hand. He glances at the scars on his wrist before returning him a knowing yet kind look.

“I’m sorry, Emil," Spamton apologizes with remorse, wiping his forehead and sighing. "I didn’t mean to stare…”

“No harm done. At least I know my makeup skills are pretty good during the week. Come on,” he sighs, “let’s go to bed.”

☎

They make their way back to Emil’s room, and Spamton, again, halts at the doorway.

“Come on, silly,” Emil laughs. “Unless you want to sleep there. Wouldn't mind but I'd trip on you during the night.”

“Oh,” Spamton skitters to his side of the bed, indicated by a lack of a nightstand. “Sorry.”

Emil’s laughter at Spamton’s awkwardness causes Spamton to blush and laugh in return. He crawls into bed, as does Emil, who prepares to turn off the light.

“I'm sorry, again, for -”

Emil stops, turning to Spamton.

Spamton falters, redirecting. “I know a lot of stuff happened,” he notes, running a hand across his crest. “A lot of stuff, tonight. But I had a lot of fun. I really did.”

Emil licks the bottom of his lip, returning a smile. “Ditto.” He gestures for Spamton’s glasses, resting them on his nightstand.

“Emil?”

“Yea?”

“Thank you.”

Emil furrows his brow. “For what?”

Spamton opens his mouth, shrugs, then looks down, picking at the left breast of his shirt. “Everything.”

“Ditto.”

Spamton looks up. Emil smiles, sighs, then clears his throat and turns off the light. He lies there, taking in the sensation of being when Emil grabs him. He scoots down, nestling his head under Spamton’s and resting his arm atop his chest near his heart. Spamton sniffles, wiping his eyes as he kisses Emil on the forehead. Emil moans, rubbing his head against Spamton’s jaw as he nestles in closer, and they both, for the first time in a long time, fall into a deep slumber.

Chapter 14

Notes:

Wow, been over seventeen days since my last post. Longest stretch yet. :’)

Had a lot of personal things going on this chapter went through several major revisions in part of that. Over eight to be exact.

I’m still not sure how I feel about it, but nothing’s perfect and I think it’s at least serviceable.

Despite this, I hope it’s an enjoyable read for everyone!

Spamton was always one to wake up early. Earlier than most addisons from the observations of those at work. The hall haunt. That's what coworkers called him as a joke. But it's a trait born out of need and anxiety. And despite his current calm, he's been lying awake staring at the ceiling fan for almost half an hour. A dull sliver of light bleeds through the cracks of the curtain enough so that he can make out Emil's room. He turns to his left. Emil’s splayed across the bed. His face is lax and his mouth is ajar. Muscular arms lay limp across Spamton's chest. Due to Emil's height and tone, there's a noticeable weight, but it's not burdensome.

This silence, this moment of being with Emil beside him brings Spamton comfort. Comfort he's rarely felt his entire life. He has to use the bathroom but dares not move. Emil's at peace, serene. Why disturb such a tender moment? A moment he never envisioned himself having the luxury of experiencing? Society taught Spamton he had nothing to offer. Yet, even now to his astonishment, Emil thinks otherwise. It still feels like a dream.

He remains staring at Emil for a few minutes, taking in everything he can. The way his chest moves as he breathes. The involuntary twitches from the corner of his mouth. The way the tip of his nose wiggles as he licks his lips. It's only when the sensation of holding it becomes unbearable that Spamton slides to the side of the bed.

“Hmm…” Emil moans, furrowing his brow, clutching the warm spot where Spamton was mere seconds ago.

A prick of regret causes Spamton to return to the bed. He brushes Emil's bangs back before covering him up and petting his hand. Emil goes lax again, giving Spamton the reassurance he can leave.

☎

Spamton shuffles to the bathroom. Once relieved, he shuffles back to the bedroom, checking the neon clock on Emil’s bed stand.

It’s 4am, around the time he’d wake up.

As much as Spamton wants to return to bed and snuggle, he doesn't. It's best not to disturb him. Instead, Spamton heads toward the living room, turning on the TV while quickly turning down the volume. He flips through the channels mindlessly until becoming bored and settling on one out of apathy more than interest. Wanting eyes waver toward the TV's stand to have a closer look.

One of the shelves has a VHS player. This little discovery prompts Spamton to get up and give the shelves a more scrupulous inspection.

A couple of VHS tapes pertaining mostly to romance and drama are beside it. The tops of the covers are dusty. On the other divide is a shelf containing a streamlined cassette and CD audio system. Fancy. Below each are two drawers, likely where excess movies, CDs, and cassettes are stored. Spamton opens the one below the audio system.

Sure enough, it contains vinyl and several organized boxes. He lifts off the tops. One box contains CDs and the other cassettes. Another box contains spare wires and plugs. There’s nothing of interest to note when reading the spines. Emil's taste in music was what Spamton expected. Classical recordings, most of which are piano compositions, and a few pop CDs. He skims past the CDs and several of the cassettes until noticing a discrepancy.

None of the cassettes are licensed or manufactured works. The spines are white and handwritten, the labels are taped on the outside, or written on the interior sleeve. He picks up a cassette and reads it.

Jaunty Jingles: 1992
[1] Krazy Krackers™
[2] Pitcher Perfect™
[3] Dandy Decks™
[4] Cungadero Style™
[5] Hillside Housing™

Emil’s name and contact information are at the bottom.

Emil never mentioned he worked in marketing...

Spamton furrows his brow as he rummages through the cassettes, taking them out one by one. There are over a dozen. Numerous ones are jingles while others are demo tapes. All of them are brands he knows. Common brands. Popular brands. He reads each one until coming across another of interest.

The contents are as expected. Emil’s name and contact information are at the bottom.

And so is someone else’s.

Spamton stares at the cassette, jutting his jaw forward when suddenly the program on the TV cuts to a commercial. It’s a pink female addison promoting smooth jazz CD collections. It shows various locations. A vista on the beach and a balcony where a couple are drinking wine.

Spamton returns the cassettes in the order he found them and closes the drawer. He sits on the couch and watches the program, but can't focus.

Emil rarely mentioned his work to Spamton unprovoked. That's expected. They were only coworkers at the time and Emil was likely trying to maintain that balance as was he. It was when they were with Trigger and Popper, that it was sometimes a point of discussion. Only because Trigger liked to gloat or be nosy and Emil only provided enough to satiate him. Emil was never one for show and it's not as though he had to talk about it. But…

Why not?

Why?

Hours pass as Spamton ponders until he hears Emil groan from the bedroom. Bedsprings creak as he rises, shuffling to the bathroom. Once done he peaks around the corner, his expression tired and bewildered. “You’re up early,” he yawns. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Spamton shakes his head. “I normally get up around four or five. It’s a habit. Even on weekends. Sorry if I woke you.”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Emil wipes his eyes. “Mind if I join you?”

“It’s your place, Emil,” Spamton titters.

Emil playfully knocks his fist against his temple, performing an explosion gesture and sound. He returns a sheepish grin, plopping down beside Spamton. “What's on?”

“Nothing,” Spamton says, offering Emil the remote, but Emil declines. “Especially since I don’t have my glasses.”

Without request, Emil leaps up, making a light jog to his bedroom. He returns with Spamton’s glasses, handing them to him.

“Oh,” Spamton blushes in surprise. “Thanks.” He puts them on. They watch TV for a minute or so as Spamton runs his hand through his crest. “I rummaged through some of your stuff by the TV,” he reveals with a brisk laugh, turning to Emil to get a read of his response.

“No harm done,” Emil reassures, splaying his legs and leaning back. “That’s what it’s there for. Wanna’ put anything on or… ?”

“Nah,” Spamton declines with hesitance. “I think it’s nice. Just sitting here watching nothing.”

Emil looks down giving Spamton a warm grin. “Yea. It is.”

“Music would be nice. But it’s way too early.”

“I thought you weren’t a music man,” Emil teases.

“I’ll make an exception if it’s your music.”

Emil chuffs and retains the smile, but he knits his brow, squinting a hair in confusion.

“I went through your CDs. Saw some cassettes.” Spamton kicks his feet against the couch. “Didn’t know you worked in marketing. Those are some cool jingles you wrote. I mean - if you wrote them. Not - saying you didn't. It's just - you have a piano.”

Emil’s smile becomes taut.

“You play piano so...” Spamton chuffs, attempting to lighten the mood. He scratches the side of his jaw. “I guess the second guy's the producer? I don't know anything about music. So correct -”

“What are you doing today?”

“What?”

“Are you free or do you have stuff you need to do?” Emil clarifies, turning toward the TV.

“… I’m free. But what -”

“I was thinking we could walk through the park to the mall,” Emil continues with a sharp huff, forcing a smile that falls slack. He glances at Spamton from his periphery. “Catch a flick. Sound good?”

“Yea. But -”

“I don’t know what genres you like, but I remember you told me you like sitcoms.”

“Emil -”

“There’s two comedy movies if -”

Spamton places his hand on Emil’s thigh, causing Emil to stiffen and go mute. Spamton opens his mouth, hesitates, then smiles. “That sounds fun, Emil. I’d be more than happy to.” They sit in a second of silence before he continues. “What times were you thinking?”

“I’d have to check the listings,” Emil explains, tapping his fingers on the rim of the seat cushion.

“Ok,” Spamton acquiesces. Both return their attention to the TV, vying to ignore the subtle tension nestled between them.

A commercial starts playing. A male cyan Addison is advertising Keen N’ Clean™ as a jingle plays. Bubble people spawn into existence scrubbing away the stain with ease. A few more commercials play before it cuts back to the news. The audio is low, but it's clear they're reporting weather and traffic report.

Spamton doesn't know what to say and his anxiety is getting the better of him. He leans in on Emil. Emil flinches and wraps his arm around Spamton, pulling him close.

Emil chuffs then grimaces, swiping aside his bangs. “I composed that. Keen N’ Clean™ that is. Late ninety-two. But I'm sure you know since you've -”

Spamton swivels his attention up at Emil.

“Was a pain to do. Producer kept requesting revisions, but -” Emil bites his lip, adjusting himself. “Still hit the deadline. Not my proudest work, but it got me more. N' hey - they still use it.”

Spamton’s not sure what's prompting Emil to open up, but he wants to know. Know why Emil’s so anxious about the topic. “What’s your proudest?” he asks, presuming the question to be neutral enough.

“I think it’s a tie between Pitcher Perfect™ and Dandy Decks™,” Emil reasons, his breathing calming.

“Yea. Those are good ones,” Spamton nods. “But I think you know which one's my favorite.”

Emil turns to Spamton, thinks a tic, then smiles. “Cungadero Style™.”

“Yea,” Spamton beams. “Tune's so catchy you don't know their cars are crap. No offense.”

“You see I don’t drive one,” Emil smirks.

"Yea."

They laugh together as they snuggle in closer and become more lax. As ease settles in, that lingering itch refuses to relent. Spamton has to know more... He looks off to the side, knitting his brow. “Can I ask something a bit personal?”

“Yea, shoot,” Emil feigns being calm, but the mask slips.

“Your samples... I’ve heard most of them. You know; on TV. They’re good. Really good. You said you kept getting work, but your last one was in ninety-three. Why’d you stop?”

Emil hangs his head down, curls his bottom lip, and nocks his tongue against his lower canine. “Wasn’t my scene anymore, you know?” he smiles.

“Not really, no,” Spamton admits as they return their attention to the TV in an awkward pause. “Well…” Spamton murmurs, “I do… Yea. I know what that’s like.”

Emil pulls Spamton in close, rubbing his shoulder.

“I liked being a postman.”

Emil stops, turning to Spamton.

“Snow nor rain nor heat nor night shall keep the mail from your sight,” Spamton recites with a forlorn stare. “That’s the postman’s creed. It was my duty, and I upheld it. Never missed a day. Never missed a box,” he nods his head with conviction. “That was…” Spamton shakes his head with a chuckle. “It’s funny, you know... When you think about it...”

“Think about what?”

“Working downstairs? No one knows I exist. No one wants what I got. Not the people I send emails to. Not even the d-tier clients. I'm deadweight more than anything else. But I guess I don't have anything to give, even if I think I do... I mean - I have to have something...”

“You're not deadweight...”

“You don't have to cheer me up, Emil,” Spamton returns with a kind look. “Maybe I'm facing reality…” He murmurs. “When I was a postman, no one complained. Customers, my boss? No one. I thought it meant I was good at my job. That I had a purpose. That I was helping people in some way, that’s what he said at least…” Spamton sighs. Emil opens his mouth to speak, but Spamton continues. “But I guess not. They replaced me the week I…” he laughs, running his hand across his chest. “But I like to think when I dropped off a package, it made someone's day. Got them through it. Even if they never saw me I could sometimes see them smile as they picked it up and closed the door.”

“You helped a lot of people,” Emil proclaims, planting a firm kiss on Spamton's crown. “Some of my medication's through mail.”

Spamton clenches his shirt. This level of openness and affection is still foreign to him. He furrows his brow while staring at the audio system. “I’m a bit jealous.”

Emil leans back, shaking his head in puzzlement. “Why?”

“What you did. I mean - music, you said it isn't your scene anymore, but you liked it at some point. I mean - you're good at it. Great. And your current job - you chose it, right?”

“... Yea.”

“I didn't choose to be a postman. I mean - I applied, but it wasn't my top choice. Gotta' pay bills, you know? I learned to love it though.” Spamton swallows. “I wanted to be a salesman. I thought I was lucky to do what I do now. Thought I could work my way up.” Spamton jests with a nervous titter.

“Spamton...”

“I know being a team lead doesn’t give you meaning,” Spamton continues, looking up at Emil. “That sucks. It does. And it might be wrong of me to say - to be jealous, but you're talented. The amount of jingles you played? What you do now? You're great at anything you do, Emil. You work hard and it pays off. You have choices.”

Emil gives Spamton a strange, hesitant glance. He swallows. “I know I said music wasn’t my scene anymore but, I didn't have a choice either.”

Spamton sits up. Opens his mouth, then closes it. Since Friday’s incident, he's compelled himself to not pry too much. To not turn mountains out of molehills. Much to his dismay, this strategy is showing mediocre success. He can feel his curiosity creeping through his expression and posture.

Emil's breakdown from playing piano, the pained expression when asked about his cassettes. His characteristic soft, sometimes raspy, and broken voice Spamton initially thought nothing of. The deep laceration along Emil’s neck and wrist. What are odd and abstract incidents in isolation are in reality pieces of a puzzle revealing a distinct image. A dark image.

Sincere inquiry and interest spurred from Spamton’s innate curiosity now feels callous with this newfound awareness upon further scrutiny. As though he crossed a barrier that was not meant for him or anyone to trespass. Each inquiry picked at old wounds like a vulture. Wounds that, independent on the surface, traversed back to a singularity.

“You don’t have to get into it if you don’t want to,” Spamton offers in an attempt to redirect Emil. “I mean, that was a while ago. None of my business.”

“It’s ok to ask, Spamton. I do have a piano and a bunch of music I made, after all,” Emil reassures with a smile, his attention fixed on the TV. It appears more like a pained wince before vanishing. “That guy on the cassette you saw; he was my producer...” he explains, resting his forefinger and thumb atop each respective clavicle.

“Oh,” Spamton remarks with sincere surprise.

“... And my ex.”

Spamton tenses.

To his surprise, Emil's not as tense as before. But beneath the tired expression are the familiar traces of agitation.

Emil starts turning to Spamton then stops. He furrows his brow, bowing his head ever so slightly. He opens his mouth but says nothing. Digits fidget with one another as he clears his throat.

“You don’t have to tell me, Emil,” Spamton cuts in.

“No. You need to know,” Emil whispers. “Like I said - it's a part of me...”

“And you don’t have to tell me. Not if it’s going to make you upset. I’m sorry for being nosy.”

“You're not being nosy.” Emil counters with an embarrassed, frustrated scowl. “I've not talked about it. Not in full. To anyone. Spruce only knows so much because I was h-” Emil coughs, straining to swallow. He falls forward as though on the verge of retching before placing his hand against his throat, steadying himself. “I was -” He closes his eyes, giving a brisk shake of his head. “Sorry...”

“Don't be sorry, Emil, 'cause - you know? Fuck that guy. He's out of the picture. In the past. Whatever he did? Whoever he is? I know enough...” Spamton spits with indignation.

“I'm this way because of him. What I allowed myself to be because of him... I…” Emil interlocks his fingers and hangs his head between them, resting his arms on each respective knee.

“I get that, but you knew me for me before I told you about my incident. Do you think any less or badly of me?”

“No,” Emil replies almost as though offended at the prospect. “Of course not.”

“Same goes for you,” Spamton returns. “I know you for you and who you are. It’s great. That's because of you, Emil; not him.”

Emil doesn't respond.

“And right now I'm enjoying being around you - watchin’ TV.”

Emil turns to Spamton, giving him a somber smile. “Yea…” They sit in momentary silence. “So, uh -” he pats his thighs, sighing briskly, wiping the corner of his eye. “Comedies…" He clears his throat, "you like those, right?”

“Yea” Spamton perks up, elated to hear a more chipper tone in Emil. “I like ‘em.”

“Good,” Emil grins. “There’s two that are out. Short Circuit and Hot Shots.”

“What are they about?”

“Uh- I think Short Circuit is about a computer guy, who’s a computer, trying to impress his boss and lady friend. The other’s about baristas who get caught in a money laundering scheme.”

“Oh, those are drastically diverse premises,” Spamton smirks.

“Here.” Emil hands Spamton a day-old newspaper after turning it to the movies section. “That should give you some info. I think the times are the same. If not, we can wait for the morning paper.”

“Oh! This has Capps P. Uno and his brother Norton P. Uno!”

“Never heard of them. Who are they?”

“Directors! Well, Capps is. Nico does screenplays most of the time. But their comedies are great. They wrote some of my favorite episodes of Wrong Attachment.”

“Wrong Attachment?”

“Yea,” Spamton confirms with excitement. “It’s a sitcom. Hilarious too if comedy's your thing. The latest season's been hit or miss, but I think that's because they left midway in the last one.”

“Well, I haven't seen many comedies, but I'd like to watch a few episodes with you if you don't mind reruns.” Something about Emil's expression while offering to watch reruns with him causes Spamton to blush. “What's it about?” Emil continues.

“There's an aquamarine addison, a woman. Name's Kibi,” Spampton explains squirming a little. “She's the main character selling hot tubs and jacuzzis. Oh - there’s a cyan Addison too. Reminds me a lot of you,” he prattles with glee until correcting himself. “Well - actually, not really. I mean he does in some ways.”

“Let me guess...” Emil playfully taps his index finger on his chin, tilting his head. “He's the exact tint as me.”

“Maybe, I - wait... What tint are you?” Spamton asks.

“Actually I don't know,” Emil laughs. “Some think I'm 'glossy cyan'. Others think 'electric cyan',” Emil explains with finger quotes. “I've - never thought about it to be honest. Don't find it at all important.”

“I dunno' what either of those are, but if I had to judge from looking at you, I'd say he's a bit darker. Thinner too.”

“Thinner huh?” Emil chuckles, patting his belly and jiggling it.

“Oh - no I didn't, I didn't mean - I meant he's skinny. Like Trigger. You're muscular. So -” Spamton pauses as Emil raises his brow with a cheeky grin. Spamton bites his lip, adjusting his glasses.

“I'm just messin' around,” Emil reassures, rubbing Spamton's shoulder. When Spamton doesn't quite recover, Emil playfully asks, “how else do we differ? Sweet tooth, sour? I like sweet stuff myself.”

“Uh...” Spamton collects himself. "He's a Debbie Downer. Like - worse than Popper. Way worse. He'd make Popper seem peppy.”

“I dunno’, I’ve been a Debbie Downer this entire weekend,” Emil counters with a sheepish titter.

“Well -” Spamton tilts his head in submission to that fact. “You’re not wrong... But that's not you, you know? Right now you got a reason to be,” he acknowledges with a more serious tone.

“Yea?” Emil jests despite meekness sneaking through. “What am I normally then?”

“Well, Cas, that’s the cyan’s name, he’s aloof and pretty mean. Kinda' the butt of a lot of jokes. You know; to contrast with him being a jerk most of the time. But you’re friendly and kind. Always helping people.” Spamton nods with conviction. “And like I said, you look nothing like him.”

Emil smiles. "That so?"

"Yea," Spamton goes on without a second thought, engaged in the conversation. "For one thing, his eyes are kinda' dark. But yours, they're - different."

"What do you mean?"

"You know how most addisons have eyes that match the color of their plumage? Like - maybe there's a slight difference? Yours are really different. Sometimes they look like a mix of cyan and violet. But most of the time they're just violet..." Spamton leans in to get a better look until he notices Emil wet his bottom lip. Insecure, he pulls back. "Your crest is nice too," Spamton redirects attempting to remain calm. "It's hard to explain, but Cas has a boring one. He just looks boring... When he enters a room? You wanna' groan unless you know something funny will happen to him."

"Doesn't seem too different. I've been getting that same response from the guys lately."

"That's 'cause they're featherheads..." Spamton scoffs. "Trigger's a smartass and Popper looks pissed half the time from just existing. But you? You're the opposite. You're cute. You light up a room."

Emil leans back. He glances down then back to Spamton. He's smiling, but there's a hint of insecurity in the corners. “You think I’m cute?”

Spamton pauses. Those tender eyes framed by thick lashes twinkle back at him. They appear mirthful yet surprised, and sad... When the contact lingers, Emil bites his bottom lip, giving Spamton a more intense stare. Spamton swallows, exhaling heavily, turning his attention to his lap. “Yea…”

“Well, I’m glad you think I’m cute even though I’m roughed up.”

Spamton tenses. Pursing his lips and jutting his jaw forward. “You’re not roughed up, Emil.”

“I mean, by all accounts I am."

“No. You're not..."

“Hey, I was just joshin’." When Spamton doesn't respond, Emil adds with a worried tenor, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

“You didn't upset me.”

“... Then what's wrong?”

Spamton shakes his head. "Nothing.”

“It's ok, Spamton. You can tell me.”

Spamton picks at the shirt between his fingers. "I just can’t stop thinking about it… That guy that beat me up? He didn't know me, and I annoyed him, I guess. Always making him sign for packages. But -”

No.

He’s doing it again.

He’s ruminating.

Prodding.

Stop.

Shut up.

"Tell me," Emil requests.

Spamton shakes his head again.

"Is it something you want to talk about later or - not at all?"

"I do but, I don't want to pick at old wounds..."

"Oh," Emil acknowledges. "I'm sorry. We can drop it."

Spamton, realizing Emil thinks he's referring to himself, clarifies. "Not my wounds. Yours."

Emil's expression becomes queer. He tilts his head to the side just a touch and leans forward, rubbing Spamton's shoulder as a sign of reassurance. "Tell me. Please."

Spamton sighs. Doing as told. "I know it's childish to think but, I don't - see how someone could do that.”

"Do what?" Emil questions with a whisper.

Spamton glances at Emil's scars before diverting his gaze. "He was supposed to love you. You don't do that to someone you love."

"Well -" Emil bites his lip, looks up, and exhales sharply. The tendons in his neck flex as he composes himself. "You're not wrong. But -" He tilts his head so that the scar along his jaw isn’t as visible and crosses his arms, the hands of which grip his elbows.

“You don't have to hide them, Emil. Not around me. I’m just pissed. Pissed that he did that to you.”

Emil remains mute, looking forward with a focused and tense stare.

“They don’t change my opinion of you. When you check in at work? My heart skips a beat. It did that before we were together." Together. Spamton twinges in embarrassment. But he can't stop himself. He won't stop himself. “You're so kind to me and - you’re beautiful, Emil,” Spamton breathes briskly in part from nerves and - something else… “I like being with you… Looking at you…”

Emil licks his bottom lip as they read one another intently.

That wanting yet restrained look Spamton’s seen twice now was all too present in Emil’s eyes. He doesn’t need to look down to know Emil’s hard. He is too.

“I like talking to you. I like - thinking about you… Touching you,” Spamton continues with a whisper. The mere thought of him... Spamton strains to remain composed. He covers his lap. “I want -“ he clenches the shirt atop his thighs. “I want to make you feel good. Do to you what you did to me.”

A wave of shame overwhelms him. Although natural, this sensation of titillation around Emil’s presence still felt perverted. Indecent. But those eyes. That face. He can’t look away. Every aspect of Emil fuels his heart, his actions. Blood rushes through his being with each beat. Each breath. “I’m sorry. I’m being inappropriate, I -”

Before Spamton knows it, Emil rests his thumb and index finger under his chin, leans down, and kisses him. It’s neither chaste nor lustful, but something in between.

Passion.

Emil pulls back and starts to rise, applying a modicum of pressure under Spamton’s chin with his finger still gracing it.

Spamton follows Emil’s lead without question. As they stand, their heights become more apparent. Emil towers over him which makes Spamton shirk his head between his shoulders. Emil stops him, retraining the pressure.

Emil takes a step back. Spamton a step forward.

Back and forth…

Back and forth…

Until they proceed down the recessed hall and into Emil’s bedroom.

Chapter 15

Summary:

No new art this go around. Been a bit under the weather.

That being said, we're around 60% done with this story! There are around 4-7 more chapters give or take.

Thanks for the comments and kudos as always!

Love.

Such a strong word.

Such a misused word.

In Cyber City it's artificial. A pitch. A ploy. An exploit of validation or the need for it. It's interchanged and concealed to obtain what was coveted with haste. Sweet whispers said only to deceive or mask one’s true intent. Especially if cooed or proclaimed by an Addison.

Spamton only once heard it in sincerity, and even then it was platonic. It was a verbal acknowledgment made with jovial intent or in mockery. There was no ferocity where one must declare it in kind to the person who set their heart aflame.

No.

Lust.

It was lust for them.

Like the neon lights that light Cyber City. Forever flickering insatiable wants. Instant but fleeting gratification.

Spamton's social exposure is limited, but he knows enough to discern the two. Discern that many don't know true love though they proclaim it. And Emil bolstered this belief for him despite his hesitance and concern. There's no coercion or agitation towards Spamton’s ignorance or delay. No mockery of his insecurities and shame. There's only consideration and care spawned from Emil's innate empathy and past troubles.

It's too soon to say either of them is in love, but love is present. Present and persistent, despite its platonic origin.

As they approached the room Spamton can't help but revisit those fond memories. Even the bitter ones as they are still the affections of two troubled men trying to navigate through a thicket of insecurities. To do what's best for themselves and one another. Even now there's a nervousness in Emil's approach. Wanting, yes, but nervous all the same. Which would’ve struck Spamton odd had Emil not informed him.

And Spamton feels it too. The awareness of his limitations is always present. Even now as Emil leads him to the bedroom he feels like a child due to his stature and ignorance.

Emil made it clear he preferred penetration. Yet Spamton knows nothing of it beyond crass remarks from Trigger and his exploits. He sighs upon settling with the burden of Emil guiding him through every step. That is unless he starts getting into porn, a concept that makes him queasy.

Before he knows it, they're in Emil's room. Emil turns on the nightstand's light and gets atop the bed with Spamton following suit.

As Spamton straddles Emil the prospect of intercourse makes his feathers stand on end. He's throbbing and wet. Disgustingly so. In hindsight, he should’ve gotten undressed before getting on the bed. But there's an embarrassment to that too. On the couch, they were at such an angle that nothing sensitive was visible. The TV in the living room wasn't too bright as it was a late-night program. It allowed them to make out just enough of one another. But the proximity of the incandescent light atop Emil's nightstand and the need to be nude makes everything far more visible and vulnerable.

Spamton wants to feel Emil, penetrate him, ravish him. His heart races at the prospect and he begins to pant, yet he's frozen. All lights are literally on him. Emil, sensing Spamton’s hesitation, slips his hands under Spamton’s shirt caressing his flesh. Such foreign contact sends a hot rush through Spamton. He mewls and begins wriggling the article of clothing off, but he becomes stuck. Emil assists, lifting it over his glasses with care, and tossing it aside.

This is the first time Spamton's been shirtless around someone outside of his doctor. He remains still, submitting to Emil's curiosity.

Emil takes in Spamton’s body. Delicate digits trace the curves and folds of his flesh. Spamton stiffens and squirms. Emil stops. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Spamton says, which wasn’t a full fib. “Just nervous and a bit ti-hahahaha!”

Emil recoils.

Embarrassed, Spamton covers his mouth. “Sorry…”

Emil can’t help but cackle. “I’m so so sorry.” He places a hand over his mouth. “That spot's a no-go, huh?”

“Yea,” Spamton confirms with a sheepish smile.

Emil bites his lip, looks down, and back at Spamton.

“Y-you can keep going,” Spamton grants. “Just watch out for my tummy.” Tummy? Why did he say that? God he sounds like a kid...

Emil continues running his hands along Spamton's body as though caressing a butterfly's wing. Careful not to damage or disrespect. There's an intensity to it. A tenderness to it. Emil's eyes become focused the more he explores. “You're so beautiful...”

Beautiful...

“Thanks,” Spamton murmurs. “You too.”

Emil grins at Spamton's awkward return. Not a hint of derision or ridicule is present in the gesture. Only affection. While delicate fingers run along Spamton's waist toward his inner thigh, a moment of clarity hits Spamton. “Emil?”

“Yea?” Emil acknowledges while stopping.

Shit.

Spamton shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Are you sure?”

Yea, Spamton wants to say, but can’t bring himself to. He shakes his head again.

“Want me to stop?”

Spamton reluctantly nods. “I’m sorry…”

Emit sits up a little, his expression becomes stern and his voice soft. “It's ok,” he reassures, rubbing Spamton's wrist resting atop his chest with his thumb.

“No, it's - I want to but,” Spamton purses his lip. “I just need a second. I'm overthinking things..."

“That happens,” Emil smiles. “I've been through that, many times.”

“Have you ever been able to... Get it back up? I uh,” Spamton averts his gaze. “I know it's more like a lightswitch, but - I normally give up if it's - I get too stressed...”

“Yea.”

“How?”

“I close my eyes and think about something else. What I want. What I need,” Emil explains. There's a sadness to his words that Spamton can't help but hone in on. Emil bites his bottom lip. His breath quickens and there’s an unease in his eyes. “Do you want to watch me?”

Spamton blinks a few times. “What?”

"Sometimes watching how your partner likes it helps get over the jitters. Can be educational. Fun too.”

It never occurred to Spamton he could watch someone. Through implications of conversations with Trigger and advertisements on TV and along the strip, he presumed there had to be intercourse or mutual masturbation of some kind. Such a limited view of sex made him feel stupid. “Sure,” he agrees with timidity. “Do I just sit to the side? Or…?”

“You can be anywhere you like but I need to be able to reach myself,” Emil laughs, bucking his hips.

“Oh,” Spamton rolls off to the side, scooting down toward Emil’s legs to get a better look.

Emil places his hands on the rim of his pajama pants and exhales sharply as he takes them off alongside his underwear.

Spamton’s eyes widen as he takes a peek.

Emil’s cock is large, much larger than his own when considering length. It alongside the mound it's protruding from is purplish in hue. It's dripping wet as is the entrance right underneath it. So much so it glistens from the light as though it's glass.

Spamton exhales sharply. If this is a trick to get him going again it worked. The urge to mount Emil is intense. Take him any way he wanted. Thrust and pound to his carnal delight, but he squelchs the thought. He doesn't know the first thing about it and watching can be educational like Emil said. Heaven knows he could use some enlightenment.

Emil leans against the mattress with his forearms bracing himself. There’s a knit in his brow and a slight frown in the corners of his mouth. “Something wrong?”

“No, I just,” Spamton swallows. “I’ve never seen another Addison naked. It’s hot - you’re hot.”

Emil smiles, but he doesn’t seem reassured. He looks off to the side, clenching the sheets.

“Are you ok?” Spamton asks, picking up on Emil’s unease.

“Yea,” he nods. “Just excited is all.”

Emil's claims don't persuade him... If it is excitement it's clearly drowning in anxiety. But who is he, the neurotic mess, to judge? Don’t ruminate… If Emil says he’s fine, he’s fine…

He reaches out his hand and then abstains. “Can I…”

“Can you what?”

“Can I touch you? Down there?”

“Yea,” Emil confirms with a soft, stiff voice. “Just uh - watch your claws,” he chuffs.

Spamton does as told. He gently presses his index finger and thumb against Emil’s mound, which causes Emil to moan to his delight. It’s soft but thick. Expected since Emil's excited. Spamton knows it's an erogenous area. He’s played with it himself when trying to get in the mood. But touching someone else's feels very different. The fact that he's caressing another male’s groin doesn't phase him, to his surprise. Spamton never considered his sexuality or who he is attracted to, and for him, it never mattered. Even now the thought is fleeting. All he knows is he's attracted to Emil. That's all he needs to know.

Fingers glide atop the smooth, warm mound causing Emil’s breath to quicken. He hisses. Muscles tense along his rear and groin. The mound tightens and his cock flicks upward.

“Does... That feel good?” Spamton asks with concern, pushing up his glasses.

“Yea...” Emil mewls with a faint pant.

Spamton’s hips twitch. Feathers along his spine to tail bristle. The urge to thrust is innate, but he withholds. He leans further down to get a closer look. Fervent ruby eyes make their way from the head of Emil’s cock down to the bulb to the entrance below.

It isn't the anus, but instead, a pseudo-vaginal opening. All male addisons have one that Spamton knows of. And he knows it's extremely sensitive to touch despite serving no reproductive purpose. He also knows the prostate is located somewhere within. Where specifically he doesn't know, but he knows it feels good to touch, at least according to Trigger. Fingers straddle the opening's sides, creeping closer and closer until they're atop the entrance.

Emil pulls back, snapping Spamton’s wrist in his hand. “Stop,” he commands, panting laboriously. There's a hazed look about him and his eyes are dilated.

Whatever courage Spamton has withers. The kaleidoscope of worry he’s restrained bursts through.

Pervert.

Creep.

Freak.

He pulls back, looking aside. “Sorry…”

“No it’s -” Emil closes his eyes and exhales, recollecting himself. “I don’t like being fingered is all.”

“I wasn’t going - I -” Spamton grimaces as he flushes with shame, bowing his head and curling in on himself

“Spamton, I - fuck…” Emil whispers. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you. It’s just, I’ve -”Emil flinches and goes quiet.

Spamton’s heart is racing. There’s a tightness in his throat and a sting in the back of his eyes. No… He can’t. Not here…

“Hey…” Emil sits up, placing his hand on Spamton’s shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve done this, especially sober,” he titters. “I’m a bit rusty.”

Spamton furrows his brow and his jaw goes slack. Ruby eyes dart up at Emil in such a way that Emil leans back in surprise. “Sober?”

Emil blinks a few times as the awareness of what he's said dawns on him. “Yea.”

“… Weren’t you sober when we were on the couch?”

Emil returns Spamton a dower look. No response is needed.

A flicker of frustration in Spamton’s face gives way to confusion and hurt. “You drank before I came over?”

“A shot or two is all,” Emil explains with haste. “To loosen up - be more open.”

Spamton shakes his head. “Open to what?” He catches his breath as an unfortunate thought slices through his subconscious. “To me?”

“No -” Emil remarks in a panic. “No no no… Not you. It’s - this…” He gestures vaguely between them.

“What’s ‘this’?” Spamton pries with contempt, mocking Emil’s gesture.

“Sex,” Emil clarifies. “Look - I know you think -” he sighs with a warble. “I’m sorry. I was anxious... I didn't -” he stops himself, exhaling to recollect. “It’s not you, ok? I like you - a lot. It's me - my thoughts. I just... I needed a shot or two. It’s how I keep steady...”

“... You get drunk?”

Emil pricks his tongue on his lower canine. “I wasn’t drunk. You would’ve known if I was drunk…”

“Whatever... I -”

“There’s a difference,” Emil presses.

“That’s not my -” Spamton collects himself before losing his temper. “You could've talked to me about it...”

Emil’s defenses crumble and his shoulders go slack. He sighs in humiliation.

“I like you, Emil. A lot...”

Pain leaks through Emil's weak acknowledgment. “Yea...”

“I mean it, Emil. I really do.”

“Sure that’s not the butterflies talking?”

“So what if it is? That’s still from me. It's what I feel,” Spamton retorts with a hint of hurt.

“Yea, but that’s different from being in love, Spamton,” Emil explains with a parental, almost sorrowful tone.

Ire strikes down Spamton's agitation, igniting his words like a match. “Don't tell me what I'm supposed to know when I feel, Emil. They're my feelings - my thoughts, not yours...”

“... You’re right… That’s not my place,” Emil relents as humility and clarity singe him. “It's just - you don't know that. You've never experienced it.” Spamton shakes his head with a revolted, hurt expression. Emil licks his lips and then speaks with stoicism. “When you fall in love, really in love, and that breaks down?” he hangs his head. “It's like death. Everything - dies. Everything about you, good and bad, dies with that person. It grows back wrong, and you reap that. And love… When it comes back? It's not the same. It’s supposed to feel good, and it does sometimes - but it hurts. it hurts...” he repeats, his voice cracking at the end.

Despite Emil's effort to restrain himself, Spamton can see worried and withered woe seep from his dejected form. That turmoil, although similar to his experiences, is far beyond his scope of understanding. Spamton submits. He crawls around to Emi's side, resting his head on his chest. Emil clasps him close in return. They remain embraced for several minutes in silence.

“I want this to work,” Emil murmurs. Though faint there's fervor and fear in his words. “I'm just scared about a lot.”

Spamton furrows his brow, rolling to the side and reclining with his forearm. Scared? Several thoughts flow through Spamton's mind, but he relents. Putting his faith in Emil. "Ok,” he whispers."Honest about what?”

“You're kind. Really kind, but... Sometimes, when you lose your temper... When you hit things, I -”

“I would never hit you, Emil…” Spamton cuts in, desperate to reassure him. And he knows this to be true. Even if it were in his nature, which it wasn't, he'd be mollywhopped by the slightest sneeze from most citizens in Cyber City, especially Emil. Yet that tension in Emil's voice - it makes him panic. And his panic must be visible as Emil returns a kind and knowing glance, further expounding upon his statement.

“I know you wouldn’t; I mean, everyone kind of does it. Hits things when they’re mad. I mean - I did it. You’re not…” Emil closes his eyes, recollecting his thoughts. “A lot of things remind me of him. Even little things. You asked me earlier why I don’t watch TV. That’s one of them. It’s why I don’t play piano anymore... I think you’ve gathered where these some of these scars came from...” Emil purses his lips.

“Yea…”

“I have a weird, um -” Emil pauses as though frozen, inhaling sharply. “He’d…” A sharp grimace cuts through a feeble smile as he swallows. Delicate fingers rest below his throat, sliding toward his mouth then down again just below his jaw. “I’d get drunk beforehand. I could pretend it was like before. When it was nice. When he was nice. Made it easy, for both of us...” Emil exhales. “Old habits die hard…” he bites his lip with a smile.

A blinding pain rips through Spamton’s core. Muscles tense. Fingers clasp the mattress as everything dissolves. A sharp sting slashes at his eyes and the taste of salt seeps through the corners of his mouth.

Emil turns at the sound of Spamton's strained breathing. “Hey,” he says with alarm, “It's ok.”

Spamton shakes his head in defiance, then hugs Emil. “No. That's not ok, Emil. That's not ok...”

Emil clears his throat, rubbing the nape of Spamton's head. “Next time we're together I won't drink. Same when we're with the guys. I need to cut back anyway. I might be - off, a bit though. But I'll try. I'll stick to it.”

“I'll help,” Spamton announces with fervor. “Whatever you need, ok?”

“I'd like that,” Emil nods, tightening his grip and nuzzling within the crook of Spamton's neck.

“And next time we try this we'll take it slow. I want to do it right. You deserve that, Emil. Ok?”

“I'd like that too,” Emil sniffs, clearing his throat.

Chapter 16

Notes:

Been a bit busy but had enough time this week to finalize this chapter!

Also, some drawings of Puppet Spamton for any who are curious!

https://frimplefram.blogspot.com/2024/03/puppet-spamton.html

Over an hour's passed since the conversation in the bedroom. In that time Spamton and Emil have bathed and dressed. Spamton's wearing his clothes from yesterday sans his cardigan and underwear. Seemed weird to borrow a pair from Emil as they were quite baggy on him, but it feels better than wearing none at all. Meanwhile, Emil's wearing a long-sleeved tee and jeans.

Spamton stares at his plate. The dish is simple. Tamagoyaki paired with rice. It likely tastes marvelous, expected of Emil's cooking, yet his appetite is absent.

Despite their compromise and embrace nothing feels resolved. Instead, it feels as though a band-aid is masking a garish wound. Worse still, they've not talked beyond Emil's inquiry of what Spamton was hungry for and his tone was submissive and timid.

In the past, the veneer of Spamton being an abnormality was so opaque he only saw his reflection. But now it's not only cracked, it's shattered.

He'd ignored and abstained from it in the past, but Spamton's interest in Emil as a person was always present. But ignorance blinded him to the reality that Emil is as layered as he is. Broken too.

Spamton isn't narcissistic to believe he's the only one with troubles or burdens. Such ills are present in the faces Cyber City's denizens; at least where he lives. Yet discussion and visible agitation from such troubles are near absent in addisons. Like Emil said, if other addisons are as broken as they are then they're damn good at hiding it. Their ability to bounce back makes the two of them aberrations. Utterly alone in their experiences.

Emil warned Spamton he wasn’t who he appeared to be. He'd persistently offered several outs to, what still felt like a tryst. In truth, Spamton thought little of how either of their neurosis would affect their lives beyond their four walls. Work, with the guys... This realization spawned a new worry. It rummages through the stink of his mind he so desperately tries to repress. Repress just enough that he might forget that he's out of his depth.

They're treading water.

How can he help Emil when they’re both gasping for air?

The clink of porcelain against wood wakes Spamton from his rumination. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Emil returns with a chipper yet strained reply. He pours himself a cup and sits. They eat in relative silence or more accurately shove food around their plate. Taking meager bites here and there. “Thought of a time?”

Spamton looks up in confusion.

“For the movie,” Emil clarifies, his attention fixed on his plate. "If you still want to go, that is. You don't -"

“Yea,” Spamton responds vying to cut through the tension. “Umm - I’m open to whatever time you want to go.”

“It’s about a twenty-minute walk. There’s a showing in an hour for the one you seemed interested in. Short Circuit I think was the name.”

“Yea,” Spamton confirms taking a sip of tea. "That’s it. And that sounds good - the time.”

“Ok,” Emil nods.

The sound of chopsticks picking at food fills the void between them until Emil sets his down. He looks at Spamton’s plate and Spamton looks at Emil’s. Both are clearly dancing around their meager portions. “I’m gonna’ clean up. Are you full or still eating?”

“I’m full,” Spamton remarks. “Sorry, I didn’t eat a lot. I normally skip breakfast.” While not a lie, that wasn’t the reason he’d only eaten a few bites.

“It’s fine,” Emil excuses, picking up the dishes and returning a weary smile. “If you get hungry we can pick up some snacks at the movies.” Spamton nods and stands, picking up dishes as well. “I got it,” Emil states. “You don’t have -“

“I want to help.”

Emil licks his lower lip in hesitation but doesn't speak further. He heads toward the kitchen with Spamton following suit, then puts the leftovers in containers and sets the dishes in the sink. Once done, Emil remains by the sink while Spamton remains near the kitchen's entrance. “Sorry for drinking before you came over,” Emil murmurs sounding exhausted. “For the bedroom. That won’t happen again,” he swallows, speaking with more clarity. “Promise.”

“It’s ok. It’s not like I mentioned that bothered me. And honestly a drink here and there's fine. I want to get to know you without the alcohol is all. And if you need help with that, I’m here.”

Emil doesn’t respond or react to Spamton's reassurances. He remains slack, staring into the sink. “That other stuff…” he sniffs. “Does that bother you?”

Other stuff.

“It bothers me that someone did that. That they hurt you. But, you're strong to have endured that. I mean - you're still here, and we're going on a second date,” Spamton titters. “I would never think less of you.”

Despite his sincerity Emil tenses. His expression turns sour as a sharp frown carves itself into his face.

“I’m messed up too, remember?” Spamton remarks, trying everything he can to comfort Emil. “If anyone has a shot at understanding you - of helping, it might be me. It's me,” he proclaims with conviction. And I want to, because -”

I love you.

...

What?

Spamton blinks, thrusting his head back in confusion and shock at the thought.

“You shouldn't have to deal with this kind of baggage...” Emil claims, his attention retained on the sink.

“I was a mailman you know.”

“It’s not your responsibility.”

“Then what is?”

Emil shoots Spamton a surprised, almost panicked look.

“We’re - boyfriends... Right?” Boyfriends “Partners... Partners help each other. Tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

Distressed, sharp breaths spew from Emil. Panicked eyes dart about the kitchen. They land on Spamton for a fraction of a second before returning to the sink. “I don’t know,” he remarks with a brisk shake of his head, pressing his hand against his throat while the other clasps the sink's rim. “I’ve never told anyone about…” he furrows his brow, biting his lower lip. “Spruce knows what's necessary. The guys don’t know anything except that I had a messy breakup. You’re the only one I've ever told. I don’t know what I need…”

An uncomfortable heat brews throughout Spamton.

He is out of his depth.

Really out of it.

But doing nothing changes nothing. The only modicum of success he's had at anything requiring critical thought was when he was a postman. He never chose to be one. Desperation and dumb luck got him that job. Maybe he was qualified. Maybe that department was equally desperate because being a postman was seen as shameful for addisons. Whatever the case, in either scenario, had he not applied he would've remained where he was.

“When I don't know what to do or it feels like everything's collapsing, I go for a walk. Helps me calm down a little and it's cheap,” Spamton chuckles meekly. “It doesn't solve anything, but it gets me through the day. Fresh air and a walk would be nice. Don’t you think?”

At first, Emil doesn't respond, but after a moment or two, he gives a curt, modest nod.

“And hey - we’re seeing a comedy. Even if you hate it I’m sure you’ll get a couple of laughs. Turn that frown around?”

Spamton winces.

Fuck.

Why did he say that?

That was stupid.

And insensitive...

Emil blinks in bewilderment turning his attention to Spamton. He chuffs, then chuckles. He slicks his hand through his bangs before giving a good head shake.

Spamton smiles but is unsure if he’s made the situation better or worse.

“The saying’s, ‘turn that frown upside down.’”

“What?”

“It’s, 'turn that frown upside down.' You said, 'turn that frown around.'”

“Oh,” Spamton scratches the side of his face. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Unless we’re on a quiz show it’s not like there’s rules to sayings. Besides - you do it a lot. I’m used to it.”

“I do?”

“Yea. You’ll say -” Emil can’t help but laugh. “I've heard you say, ‘it’s a bucket of beans’ when the saying’s ‘it’s a potato bucket’ or, ‘it’s like washing a bucket of potatoes’."

“Huh...”

“Another one... ‘Even birds fail to fly’. You originally said, ‘even birds fall from trees,’ then it morphed into that. I think you got that from, ‘even monkeys fall from trees.’ To be honest I like your take better on that one. The flying version. Oh - ‘getting silver spoons.’ You don’t get silver spoons. You’re born with one.”

Spamton knows Emil isn’t making fun of him, but he can’t help and feel a bit embarrassed.

“Well, if you're born with one isn't that technically getting one?”

“Fair point,” Emil submits.

“Geeze. Never knew I messed up so many sayings...”

“Tomato tomato,” Emil shrugs. “Besides, it’s cute,” he adds with a smile, picking up on Spamton’s discontent. “It’s one of the first things I noticed about you.”

Spamton playfully crosses his arms, cocking his head to the side. “Really? Not my abnormal complexion or height?”

“Noticed those too of course,” Emil smirks.

“And neither of those bother you?”

Emil’s smile drops a hair. Despite Spamton’s impish play, round spectacles magnify the worry within his eyes.

It's obvious to anyone that Spamton was an anomaly. Most addisons at their shortest were 5’6” or 5'8" and they were typically female. Spamton was well under a foot or more of that while Emil is on the medium end for a male at 6’2”. As for complexion, Spamton knows Emil's seen his fair share of people staring at him with ridicule, confusion, or disgust. Especially at work. The so-called nicknames addisons tossed behind Spamton's back. The amount of times he's heard Emil correct them.

Yes.

Emil is all too aware...

“No,” he responds, approaching Spamton. He bends down, lifts Spamton’s chin, and kisses him. They remain locked for a second before he pulls back. He retains his gaze while giving Spamton a soft stroke with his thumb. “Like I said, you’re beautiful.”

A flush of red blooms over Spamton and he hiccups. He tucks his head into neck. The urge to turn away is strong, but he maintains. “Ditto,” he smiles.

Emil smiles in return and for the first time this weekend, it’s free of worry. “Come on. Let’s head out.”

☎

Spamton has never been in Emil’s part of the city. The need to explore is minimal for him on account of his strict budget and lack of friends. Beyond what he's seen on TV he doesn't know much about outings or dating. But a walk through town and a movie seems normal enough.

A part of him is nervous. Silly to think when taking into consideration the conversations they had throughout the weekend. The fact that they’ve been intimate at least once. But that's private. This is the first time they’ve been out together. Outside of the bar or work. As a couple...

Is it taboo to do certain things? To show public displays of affection? Spamton rarely observes others in his day-to-day life. He normally keeps his head down so as to not cause trouble. The instances he's seen public affection were brief. Male and female couples showing romantic affection is the norm. Same-sex couples displaying affection is also present but far less frequent. In either scenario, few seemed to care unless it's really inappropriate. He shouldn't worry. They're walking side by side in relative silence beyond brief observations sparking curt conversation. No one should be the wiser. And there's a light early spring chill in the air so both of them had their hands in their pockets.

Spamton is wearing a spare windbreaker from Emil. It sags off his body making him feel self-conscious. Especially since passersby are shooting him swift stares and an occasional glower. A whisper or two nip at his ear.

On his side of town such stares and commentary are rare. He likes to believe most people became used to his presence but it's more likely they're apathetic. Why ponder about a pasty addison when bills and eviction were an ever-looming concern?

Spamton diverts his attention to Emil. They're about a foot apart. Due to the discrepancy in height and their proximity it's an interesting view. The way in which his bangs bounced, how the light defined his face, every aspect of him is beautiful. Even though they aren’t at work Emil applied makeup to his visible scars. His long shirt and windbreaker obscure the rest.

Spamton can’t help but wonder how often Emil must be aware of his scars. Especially since he so readily applied makeup even on the weekend.

Emil shoots Spamton a side glance, catching him by surprise. Spamton averts his gaze with haste. Upon making eye contact with people passing by, he hangs his head. “So jumpy,” Emil notes with a playful remark laced with concern. “Everything ok?”

“Yea. Never been around this side of town is all.”

Emil gives Spamton a scratch on the back then glides his hand up to his left shoulder. He rubs it, pulling him to his side. “These streets are savage. Best stick close to me.”

Spamton looks up in panic.

“I’m joking,” Emil laughs. “Most that happens around here is someone complaining about their order or service.”

“Oh,” Spamton laughs. “Well, that’s good. Must be nice. My neighborhood has a lot of theft.”

“No offense, but I’m not too surprised."

“None taken. I mean - someone mugged me for my bike, so you're not wrong.”

Emil comes crashing to a halt, his prankish prattle evaporating.

“It’s ok,” Spamton brushes off in desperation to downplay it. He continues forward, hoping Emil will follow suit. “Walking’s not so bad and there’s buses."

Emil furrows his brow and frowns as he keeps the gap between them tight.

Shit.

“It’s fine, Emil,” Spamton reassures. “Hey, is that the place?”

Emil looks in the direction Spamton’s pointing. “Yea.”

The building is small. Quaint. Nestled between an ice cream parlor and a bookstore.

“Huh…”

“What?”

“It’s homely,” Spamton compliments.

“Yea. It’s why I like it," Emil remarks, the edge ebbing from his voice. “It’s pretty quiet and not a lot of ruckus. Besides, I like to support more local venues.”

It’s then that Spamton realizes something. “Oh yea, I thought we were going to the mall.”

“Shoot…” Emil winces, rubbing his temples. “I normally come here. Must’ve gotten things mixed in my head. Movie times are around the same though. And it’s only another fifteen minutes or so to get to the mall if you’d like.”

“I like this,” Spamton remarks taking it all in. “It’s small. Makes it less -” intimidating. Spamton shrugs.

“Less what?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “I like it. Come on. Let’s get tickets.”

☎

“Two tickets for Short Circuit please,” Emil requests from the ticket master at the window.

“Film’s rated R,” the tick master states.

Emil gives him a confused look until the ticket master, a humanoid android, glances down at Spamton.

“He’s an adult,” Emil clarifies.

The ticket master returns a lazy smirk as he requests payment with an extended hand.

Spamton pulls out his wallet, but Emil's quick to the draw. He hands the ticket master cash and obtains two tickets. Spamton returns the wallet to his back pocket as they make their way inside.

Although the outside seems no bigger than a drug store, the interior is more spacious. Six movies are playing if the posters are anything to go by. Four are older releases from the late eighties, and the other two are new. The heavy scent of butter and cheese engulfs the air, much to Spamton’s delight.

“Want anything?” Emil gestures with a nod to the concession stand.

“Sure, I’ll cover it since you got tickets.”

“I got it, Spamton,” Emil smiles. “Besides, I owe you.”

Spamton furrows his brow. Owes him what?

“What do you want?”

“Popcorn and soda, please. We can share the drink.”

“Flavor?”

“Whatever you want,” Spamton shrugs. “I’m not picky.”

“It’s my treat. You choose.”

“Uh - root beer.”

“Large root beer and popcorn, please.”

Emil hands the usher cash and pockets the change. “Here,” he says, handing Spamton the popcorn. “I’ll carry the drink.”

“Which way?”

“I think the right,” Emil checks, leaning to get a better look. “Yea.”

They make their way down the hall, take another right, then enter.

“Small crowd,” Spamton remarks noting the four or so people.

“Small Theater,” Emil jests.

Spamton chuckles.

“Let’s take the middle seats.”

They scoot past one person in the middle aisle and take their seats.

“It's been a while since I've seen a movie,” Spamton remarks as he inspects the room.

“When was the last one you saw?”

“Some musical dark comedy a year or so back.”

Emil smirks giving Spamton a nudge, “thought you were a movie guy.”

“I am, but prefer TV,” Spamton explains. “I mean, I don't have any friends, so -” Spamton catches himself, but it's too late. Emil stares at him. The most pathetic, gut-wrenching stare of pity Spamton's ever received. He goes mute. A trembling hand picks up a piece of popcorn and tosses it toward his mouth. He misses, so grabs another and puts it in. It's crunchy and crumbly, but Spamton's effort to chew is laborious and he strains to swallow. It rakes against constricted flesh as it makes its way to his stomach. Once past his throat, he gasps. “Soda, please,” he asks as tears of pain and humiliation build. Spamton turns his attention to the screen, trying to play it cool as he drinks.

“Are you ok?”

“Yea.”

“If you -”

“I'm fine, Emil,” Spamton hammers home with a tinge of agitation, more at himself than Emil. He glances at Emil from his periphery. Emil's head is tilted at a slight angle with a dejected demeanor. “I'm sorry. Got flustered trying to eat popcorn,” Spamton titters which was partially true. He clears his throat, gives his eyes a good wipe, and takes a few bites of popcorn as he stares at the screen.

Ads are playing. Most are products from big-name brands, but nothing of note until one for Banner’s Boutique pops up. It’s advertising a new cologne, perfect for date nights according to the pitch.

“I wonder if Trigger and Popper worked on that one,” Spamton whispers.

“Doubt it. Takes several months to get to post,” Emil explains. There's a reserved tone in his voice.

“Hmm…” Spamton picks at the left side of his windbreaker. He leans back, watching the rest of the commercials play. He takes another peak at Emil. Emil’s staring straight ahead; his expression slack and vacant.

“Popcorn?” Spamton offers, trying to perk Emil up.

Emil turns to Spamton a touch confused until he physically offers the bucket. “Thanks,” Emil says, taking a few bites.

Without warning the lights dim as a loud click emanates through the theater. Spamton startles, almost dropping the popcorn as a robotic female voice speaks through the audio system. Emil turns to Spamton and puffs a warm chuckle.

“Welcome to Retro Wave Cinema™ where blasts from the past make memories last.™ Remember, no talking while the movie is playing and refreshments are in the lobby. Enjoy the show.”

“It has been a while, huh?” Emil grins sheepishly.

Spamton smirks, giving Emil a playful nudge as he nestles into his seat and sets his right hand on the armrest. Emil takes Spamton's hand, interlocking their fingers and Spamton gives in to the embrace, leaning on Emil's shoulder as the movie starts.

Chapter 17

Notes:

Been busy the past few weeks and that means future chapters will be pretty slow. But hopefully, they won't be too slow!

As always, any grammatical or formatting errors will be fixed as I find them. Hopefully, there's not too many, heh.

"Wow, you're soft..." coos a male voice.

"Thanks," replies another.

The sound of the men panicking and screaming causes the theater crowd, meager though it is, to laugh.

Emil chuckles, leaning towards Spamton. “Something similar happened in the office during a pitch session once," he whispers. "Electricity failed. I’ll tell you about it later."

Spamton doesn't respond. His mouth's ajar and his brow furrowed. The screen's vibrant light flickers atop his eyes, highlighting his unease.

“Are you ok?”

Either Spamton didn’t hear Emil or he’s ignoring him.

Emil inspects Spamton for half a minute or so before returning his attention to the screen. He rubs his forefinger and thumb together as a small knot writhes in his stomach.

The movie progresses in the usual comical fair. Despite the film's antics, Emil becomes less and less aware of it. He'd welcome, enjoy even, the distraction under normal circumstances, but it’s been a while. A while since he’s gone to the movies. Since he’s felt that gut-wrenching sensation of pathetic hope laced with dread. The awareness of his feelings for the man beside him. That unrelenting fear that he might mess this up.

It's all so intense and sudden.

Pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

Needy.

Weak.

Week.

It’s been less than a week and he’s already head over heels...

Honeymoon phase. That's what it should be. But this is different. This hurts. More than he's used to. It's worse than Trigger. Worse than...

He presses his tongue against his canine and digs his forefinger's claw into his thumb. He sits in a still panic as torrid waves of his insecurities drench him. Drowns him. He's drowning in his thoughts.

Why.

Why can’t he be normal and enjoy this moment? Stop thinking?

It's not as though this state in Spamton's abnormal. Emil's seen it numerous times at work. But that's work. Work was his usual worry. This is different...

No.

Spamton's tired is all. Tackling demons exclusive to him and him alone. They each carry burdens they know little of. Trigger and Popper scarcely know his troubles, and Spamton knows only so much.

He hasn't hurt Spamton.

Spamton's not mad at him.

He's just ruminating...

Right?

Emil continues observing Spamton. He's close yet so distant.... Shrouded in a world of turmoil and consternation.

A half hour or more passes. The movie finally ends and the credits roll as the lights come on.

People stand to stretch and yawn as they gather their items and shuffle through the aisles.

Emil and Spamton follow suit with their belongings. They head toward the exit, tossing their trash as they leave.

The starker lighting of the halls blinds Emil, causing him to wince, but his eyes adjust as expected. He looks around until spotting Spamton.

He wants to check in, but abstains.

Stop.

It's nothing.

Fretting over nothing.

Emil sighs in an attempt to remain calm.

Don't overthink it.

Act normal.

Be normal.

Leave it be.

“What did you think? The movie, that is?" Emil asks breathlessly.

“It was good,” Spamton murmurs.

“Hey, remember how I said something similar happened at work? That blackout scene?”

“Yea,” Spamton replies despite his inattentive expression indicating otherwise.

Emil waits. Waits for something, anything to indicate Spamton's with him. Interested in the conversation, but there’s nothing.

Pain radiates through Emil's mouth as he presses his tongue against his lower canine. The urge to pry is searing, but he remains steadfast. Instead, he tries a different approach.

“How would you say the movie holds up compared to their other works?”

“Pretty good.”

“Hmm…" Emil nods more in agitation than acknowledgment. "Well, what was your favorite part?”

“The part where Harvey bumps into Milly's chest," Spamton answers absently.

That was near the beginning of the movie…

Emil licks his lips, tapping his left hand’s index finger against his thumb.

A few minutes of quiet pass as they exit the theater. They walk past the stores and down the street.

He can’t take it anymore.

“Is everything ok?”

“Yea,” Spamton reassures, picking at the left side of his windbreaker. “Just thinking is all…”

“About what?” Emil playfully asks, attempting to mask his worry.

“Nothing really, just - that movie reminded me a bit about work," Spamton responds, shaking his head. "Been stuck on this - stupid ad for pimple cream. I don’t know what to write. I mean, we’re addisons. We don’t get pimples... When Harvey got dead pixels on his face and was trying to fix it before his date, it reminded me of that. And -” Spamton throws up his hands. “I'm being a bummer. I honestly forgot about work for once if you can believe it,” he turns, smiling at Emil. “I'm sorry I'm always down..."

Emil sighs with both understanding and relief. As selfish as it is, he's glad he's not the cause of Spamton’s consternation. At least not directly. Not right now. But it bothers him that Spamton is hurting.

It’s rare to see Spamton in top form. There’s almost always a tired, beaten look about him. The way he walks and talks. The manner with which he observes the world. There’s a submissive meekness to it. As though he’s a flower trying to bloom but persistently trampled upon. Forced to only grow so far as to not endure such mistreatment.

Emil hoped the movie would cheer Spamton up. Be a distraction from everything he’s going through. What he’s putting him through. And he made it worse…

“I understand,” Emil comforts, rubbing Spamton’s shoulder, pulling him close. “You got a lot going on; I get it. It’s still Saturday though. Maybe we can think of something to kick that funk. Get some pep in your step.”

“Yea,” Spamton acknowledges, still picking at the windbreaker while looking down. “I’ve been thinking of something else too…"

"What's that?"

"Us.”

Emil stiffens as though a hand has clenched and twisted his heart. Pressure builds in his core, causing upset. “What do you mean?”

“Well...” Spamton bites his lip. “I've been thinking about how we navigate things. At work; with the guys.”

The knot eases a hair. “Keep it normal like nothing’s changed,” Emil suggests with a reserved tone. "As for the guys, do you want to say anything?”

"I dunno' what to say." Spamton looks up with concern. “What would you say?”

“Well I'd say we’re seeing each other, romantically,” Emil swallows. “Nothing more nothing less. I was thinking of telling them before the next time we go out. If that’s ok."

Spamton nods in agreement, returning his attention ahead as they make another turn. “I’m just worried what they’ll think.”

“They’ll think nothing of it.”

Spamton shakes his head. “You know they will. Especially Trigger…”

“Don’t worry about Trigger,” Emil puffs. “He’s full of hot air and a feather head like you said.”

Spamton knits his brow and a slight frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I dunno. He already hates me. This’ll just give him more ammo.”

“He doesn’t hate you, Spamton…”

Spamton only smirks, kicking a pebble.

“I’ll talk to him, ok?” Emil stops retaining his hold on Spamton’s shoulder until he looks up. “Don’t worry about Trigger. He’s all bark and no bite." When Spamton gives a weak nod he jovially jostles him.

Spamton brushes Emil off with an impish jab as they press onward.

☎️

“And we're back," Emil comments as they make their final turn, approaching his apartment. He opens the door and starts up the stairs, but stops, turning to Spamton.

Spamton’s standing in the doorway with a blank look.

“Coming in?” Emil asks, rubbing his throat.

Spamton comes to. “I’m sorry,” he shakes his head. “I'd love to stay, but I think... I think I should head home.”

Are you sure? Emil starts to ask but stops. Spamton’s hands are in his pockets and his head is downcast.

“Did -” Emil bites his lip. “Not feeling good?”

Spamton shakes his head.

The lance of worry and dread pierces Emil. “Was it the food? Sometimes their popcorn's too buttery. Makes me queasy.”

Spamton hesitates to respond. “Maybe a little.”

He’s lying.

What did you do.

“We did spend almost a whole day together if you count Friday,” he smiles. “I can drive you back if -”

“Nah,” Spamton shakes his head again, turning his attention to Emil. He smiles, but instead of looking pleasant, it's pained. “I don't wanna' put you out the way.”

“You're not,” Emil reassures, approaching Spamton. “I know you're not feeling good, but - outside of that... Is everything ok?”

Spamton strains to retain eye contact but pivots. He shuffles his feet and returns a nod. “Yea.”

“I don't feel right letting you take the bus if you're not feeling well, Spamton. At least let me call a taxi for you?”

“It's ok, Emil. Bus won't kill me,” he laughs, keeping his gaze on the ground. “I've walked home lotsa' times with an upset stomach. Sometimes I feel better after too.”

What did you do.

“Ok...” Emil relents. “I -” he catches himself, “I'll be home if you need anything. Just call, ok?”

“Yea,” Spamton, peaking up at Emil. “Thanks. I did have a lot of fun,” a soft chuckle puffs through. “I mean it.”

“Ditto,” Emil returns. He leans down, giving Spamton a tight hug before grabbing his shoulders. “Get home safe.“

“Ok,” Spamton reassures as Emil spins him around, patting him on the back.

Emil watches as Spamton saunters off. No matter how far he goes, his meek, petite form is still distinguishable amongst the cacophony of light and color. It's not until Spamton turns left at the end of the street that Emil loses sight of him and himself.

☎️

Hinges creak as Emil enters his unit. He hangs his keys on the key rack and kicks off his shoes. The sound of socks sliding against hardwood transitions to the muffled sound of carpet as he shuffles into the living room.

Emil surveys his surroundings with apathy.

This has been his residence for well over three years. What once felt like home sparingly does. The isolation haunts him. Yet so did Spamton's presence in this space. Both are persistent reminders of what he lacks and is desperate to obtain.

Why...

Why

Ruined.

Tainted.

Eroded from within.

A facsimile.

A crafted facade and a con.

A dinner and a movie. That was it. Yet Emil capitulated to himself. He fucked up. He knelt and severed his head. He lost his mind.

Emil meanders round and around, eventually wandering into the bedroom. The light emanating from his digital clock catches his eye, as does something else atop the table. He turns his attention to his phone.

No.

Don’t call.

He’s not even home.

Even if he is, he’s upset.

You’ll make it worse.

Emil paces with his arms crossed. Again and again. His attention retained on the phone.

Trigger.

Call Trigger.

Don't-

You're a mess.

A discrace.

Calm down.

Relax.

Drink.

No.

You promised.

You promised.

But… He did say a little here and there isn't bad, right?

And he’s not here…

Emil turns to the hallway, tapping his index finger atop his bicep.

“Fuck…”

One drink.

That’s all…

A shot.

One shot.

Emil exhales as he walks briskly into the kitchen, opening the liquor cabinet. He takes out a bottle of kusu and a shot glass, pours a glass, then downs it.

Sweet liquid slithers down his throat, giving him a warm sensation despite the burn.

Emil winces at the sensation and presses his hand against his throat. He looks at the bottle in his hand for a moment before shaking his head, pouring another shot, and downing it too. He seals the bottle with haste, returning it to its dark abode.

He remains in the kitchen for a few minutes, then makes his way back to the bedroom and the phone, dialing a number.

RING

Emil runs his hand down the length of his face, resting it atop his mouth.

RING

He exhales, tapping his arm.

“Hello?” Trigger greats with a sharp, sing-song voice.

“Hey,” Emil replies, his voice cracking.

“Oh, heeey,” Trigger acknowledges this time with a more sensual, almost cutting tone. “How’d date night go? Do anything fun?”

“It went good,” Emil claims, rubbing the side of his neck, then sliding his hand to his throat as he clears it. “At least I think it did.”

“'Think it did'?” Trigger sniggers with coy mockery. “Either it went well or it didn’t. Guessing from that statement you two didn’t do much of interest.”

“We did,” Emil claims in his defense, straining to remain cool. “Just got back from the movies with him.”

“Oh. Took him to the movies after a night of hangin' out. Such a gentleman. Better than me.”

“We’re not hanging out, we’re dating…”

“Congratulations! But unless you two got to first base I’d consider that hanging out,” Trigger laughs.

Emil nocks his tongue atop his lower canine as he turns around, the receiver still to his ear. “I was calling to see if you guys will be at the bar Monday.”

“‘Course.”

“Spamton might come along too.”

“'Course,” Trigger chuffs, yet - something in his voice... “You’re officially love birds now. Just try not to help him 'find his fork' if he ever 'drops' it while we’re there.”

“Also wanted to ask that when we’re together, if you could please be respectful of us,” Emil requests, cutting to the chase.

“'Kay,” Trigger submits with agitation.

“I mean it, Trig. No inappropriate comments or gestures, please.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt your lil’ powder puff.”

Emil moans, rubbing his forehead. “Please stop calling him that.”

“What? I didn’t insult him.”

“Yes you did.”

“... You think that’s an insult? 'Powder puff'?”

“From you? Yes.”

“Fine,” Trigger mopes. “You’re so neurotic...”

“Asking someone to be respectful isn’t neurotic, Trigger...”

“You are. You act like the guy’s a hemophiliac. Like he'll bleed if I make a lil' jab. If that’s not neurotic, I don’t know what is."

“Trigger…”

“What? You've been a bit crazy lately.”

“I'm not crazy.”

“Pft - could fool me.”

“Please stop…” Emil growls. “I could do without your opinions today…”

“Geez… Calm down.” Trigger snarls in return. "Pop some pills and have a drink or somethin’.”

“Don’t bring that up,” Emil snaps with a quivering voice. “Don’t you ever bring that up.”

“Whoa...” Trigger exclaims. “What are you talking about?”

“You hear me?” Emil threatens, his voice cracking. “I’m serious...”

“I’m not - what? Bring up what?”

Emil's panting. He removes the receiver from his ear, covering his mouth.

Shit.

Hang up.

Hang up now.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers with a moan, as though straining to breathe.

“What's goin' on, Em?" Trigger responds with an unusual concern laden in his words. He speaks softly. Carefully. "Wanna’ talk about… Whatever‘s goin’ on?”

“No thanks. I, umm -” Emil gulps, letting out a pained exhale. “I’m gonna’ - hit the hay for the night.”

“Emil… It’s only four…”

Fuck…

“What’s goin’ on, man?” Trigger presses with worry.

Emil mewls, covering his eyes. “I’m sorry for losing my temper.”

“Emil -”

“I need to go.”

“Hey -”

“See you later…”

“H-”

click

Emil stands there. He’s shaking. Cutting pain spreads through his chest, making breathing excruciating. Stilted breaths fill the air as he looks around in a panic.

RING

His attention snaps to the phone.

RING

RING

A faint click cuts through the tension as he yanks the landline jack from the phone.

He steps back. Receding more and more into the kitchen. He thrusts open the cabinet, grabs whatever bottle’s closest, and pours a shot.

Then another.

And another…

☎️

“Can I help you sir?”

“No thanks,” Spamton replies.

“I am a walking database you know,” an android winks. “Any nook I'll find your book."

“I’m good,” Spamton reassures. “Someone helped me already. I’m just looking around.”

“Ok. If you do need help I’ll be another aisle over,” the android informs departing with her cart.

Spamton returns to inspecting the spines with care when he hears footsteps. He steps back looking around with haste. When it's clear the person changed direction he returns his attention to the shelf. He selects a few books, then makes his way to the checkout desk.

“Find what you were looking for?” the receptionist, another android asks with a chipper tone.

“Yea,” Spamton nods as he scans the area with the books clutched to his chest.

“Library card, please.”

Spamton obliges, handing her his card.

She takes it along with the books and starts the checkout process. A curious smile flashes across her face as she observes Spamton before scanning the card. She inspects the first book and her smile lowers.

Spamton fidgets. He picks at his windbreaker as her smile lowers more and more with each scan until it’s gone.

“Thanks,” Spamton says as she hands him the books. The receptionist says nothing. She only returns a distant glance before directing her attention elsewhere. Spamton gives an awkward nod as he departs with haste.

☎️

… I don’t want that to go away. Do you want that to go away?

Emil strains to open his eyes. They’re heavy. Everything is heavy and his throat's burning…

He looks to his left. The TV’s on. Some program or other is playing.

He sits up.

“Ah!”

Pain splinters through Emil’s temples. He slouches on the couch as he steadies himself to assess the symptoms.

It’s not a migraine. At least not yet.

Emil sighs in relief as he can, for better or worse, endure for now.

Headaches weren't uncommon for Emil. Some of them never even transitioned into a migraine. But it was fifty-fifty if it were to do so. Hopefully, this one will play out in his favor. Especially since he can’t take his medication. The scent of alcohol wafting off his tongue lets him know that will be a dangerous combination. Thankfully for him, drinking wasn’t a trigger. Still, he needs to take precautions.

Emil turns off the TV and rises with care to not aggravate his condition further.

He isn’t much of a coffee person. He prefers teas. But for one reason or another, coffee helped dampen his headaches. He checks the top of his microwave for a small container until he finds it. There’s enough inside of it for one cup.

Emil preps the coffee maker and waits for it to brew. The smooth simmer coming to a gurgling stop lets him know it's done. He pours the coffee into a mug and adds a touch of cream with no sugar.

He takes a sip. It’s tolerable. He takes a few more as he shuffles into the living room.

Emil starts heading to the couch when something catches his eye on the dining table.

It’s a small box.

Emil cocks his head to the side.

Strange... He hasn’t noticed it before.

He approaches the table, sets the cup down, and inspects the box. It’s wrapped up as though it’s a gift. He licks his lip as he opens it with care.

It’s dark chocolate and there’s a note taped to the front.

You were the first person who ever talked to me in the mail room. Who was ever kind to me. Who ever gave me a gift. You’re a great guy, Emil. I’m glad you’re in my life. - Spamton

Words on the note dissolve and shimmer as unshed tears fill Emil’s eyes. He blinks a few times, wiping his eyes as he clears his throat.

Emil sits down, opens the box, and puts a piece of chocolate in the coffee. He stirs the contents, giving it another taste. He closes his eyes as he takes in the flavor. Relaxing as the warm liquid trickles down his throat.

☎️

Spamton stares at the water running down his shower curtain. They bead together then descend faster and faster until they pool at his feet. Circling around and around until they're down the drain.

It’s only when he remembers he has to pay for water that he snaps out of it, turning off the faucet and shaking off.

Spamton steps out of the shower, drying off what little water remains then hangs the towel. He steps out into his singular room and makes way for the couch where he’s laid out his clothes. He reaches for his underwear and slides them on, then his shorts, and finally a wife beater.

Spamton never thought much about how he dressed. Why should he? Yet there’s a newfound heightened awareness of his body.

Beautiful.

That’s what Emil called him.

Spamton winces at the thought.

How could he be beautiful?

The idea that he almost undressed in full. That Emil almost saw him in such a state makes him gag as repulsion bubbles from his core.

He wipes his head and starts to reach for the remote when he notices a blurry light blinking in the distance. He puts on his glasses.

There’s a message on his phone.

It’s the weekend. Who would be -

Spamton creeps toward the phone and presses the button.

Hey, it's Emil. I know it’s late, but I wanted to let you know I found the chocolate you got me. Sorry, I didn’t notice them sooner. But thanks. How'd you know I liked dark chocolate? Heh... Also wanted to say... You’re a great guy, Spamton. I’m glad you’re in my life too... Have a good rest of the weekend. See you Monday. I -”

click

Spamton stares at the phone. He reaches for the receiver but halts, turning to the table beside the couch to check the time.

It’s past ten.

The sound of laughter from the TV prompts him to head toward the couch. He grabs the remote and turns it off.

He grabs the windbreaker sitting atop the couch’s headrest and hugs it to his body, giving it a good smell.

Addisons don’t have a discernible scent compared to most residents of Cyber City. Even with their keen sense of smell, it’s faint. Nearly absent. Yet Spamton can make out Emil's signature.

He plops down on the couch and flings his head against the headrest when something falls, nudging his thigh.

It's one of the library books. The makeshift bookmark he made has lost its place.

He puts the windbreaker on, grabs the book, and opens it. Starting where he left off.

Chapter 18

Emil stares listlessly at his computer as the subtle sounds of coworkers traversing the office become static.

Despite how rocky the weekend was, he couldn't stop revisiting it. The highs and lows. The fact that he's actually doing this. Allowing himself to be vulnerable again with another man. Intimate. It's familiar and frightening. Comforting and challenging. Spamton's the mirror opposite of the kind of men Emil found himself attracted to. Cocky, collected, confident, calculated... Controlling... That familiar flame burned him time and time again. In many ways, it feels as if he's chaperoning an adolescent with how naive Spamton is. How naive Spamton is of him... How he reacted to his confessions - it's as if Spamton's a child trying to heal a broken bird that can't be saved.

Broken.

Emil rakes his tongue across his teeth in further reflection.

“Hey -”

Emil startles, biting his tongue and hissing in pain.

“Whoa - didn't mean to scare you,” Spruce notes in surprise with his hands in the air. “You ok?”

“Yea...” Emil remarks absently, rubbing his cheek. “Was just looking over, uh -” He gestures with his right hand, plopping it atop his thigh as he shakes his head. “Checkin' emails,” he sighs, smiling.

“Well, that's not the only thing you should be checking,” Spruce hints with a critical brow raise.

Emil turns to the clock on his desktop. “Shit...” he hisses. He rises to make his round when he bumps into Spruce's hand extended before his breast.

“Do you need more time?”

“No,” Emil brushes off, grabbing his clipboard and pen. “I can make rounds.”

“I meant from work.”

Emil turns to Spruce. What feels like needles pierce his gut. “No I'm fine,” he reassures with a nervous nod.

“You sure? You seem distracted...”

“I'm fine, Spruce. I'm - they've been doing construction outside my apartment. Fixing the sidewalks... Finally...” he adds with a smirk attempting to make it more convincing.

Spruce gradually lowers his hand. “Ok,” he concedes with a side-eye. “But if you need -”

“I'm fine,” Emil nods, biting his lower lip and giving a thumbs up as he walks backward. “I'm fine.”

Spruce returns a curt nod and pivots on the ball of his foot, sauntering off.

Once Spruce is out of sight, Emil expels a quivering moan.

☎

“Yea, I've sent the digital proofs off to their coordinator,” a mute cyan, female addison informs Emil.

“Great!” Emil replies. “That'll likely get approved by Tuesday. If not, I'll circle back. See if I can get more information on that for you.”

“Cool,” she notes, giving a thumbs up and a wink before putting on headphones and returning to her work.

Emil nods, resting his clipboard under his arm and putting his hands in his pockets as he surveys the office. That was the last person he had to check on upstairs. He turns towards the entrance and his mouth becomes taut. He sighs as he presses forward, making his way down the hallway and towards the stairs.

Something about the walk to Spamton's office always saddens Emil. The building is shoddy as is, but Spamton's area is the most neglected. He wouldn't be surprised if some mistook it as an abandoned area. It's heartbreaking as is but even more so knowing someone as zealous as Spamton works in such conditions. Hidden away as though he's junk.

They haven't spoken since Saturday and Spamton didn't respond to his voicemail. What if...

Emil shakes the thought away and gallops down the derelict stairs. He gives a soft tap on the door. “It's Emil,” he announces. “Can I come in?”

“Yea,” Spamton returns with a muffled response.

Emil turns the knob and the hinges creak as he enters the dark chamber, closing the door behind him. The expected, somewhat comforting scent of old boxes and dust wafts in the air.

Spamton's hand is pressed against his forehead and he's hunched forward. It's unclear if he's reading something or is upset.

“Just doing the morning check-in,” Emil smiles, attempting to appear jovial. “Everything ok?”

He doesn't respond.

“Spamton?”

“Oh,” Spamton remarks with a delayed surprise. He turns around sporting a smile, but he appears haggard and exhausted. “Sorry, I - was looking over something.”

“Is it the pimple cream ad?”

Spamton furrows his brow in confusion until recalling. “Oh, yea. Yea... Was fiddling with it last week. Couldn't - think of anything good but, I think - I think I've got something.” He gestures for Emil to approach.

Emil walks over and leans down to get a better look.

We stop zits when they don’t quit.

“Hey. This is pretty good.”

Spamton looks up in surprise. “Really?”

“Yea,” Emil nods. “Rhyme's effective and it's short. You know, the way I think of it, printed words are nothing more than a written jingle. Sometimes saying it out loud or singing it lets you know if it’s working or not.”

“Yea... I never thought of it that way. Man, I feel stupid…” Spamton laughs meekly.

“Well, I feel stupid for never bringing it up. Especially since I used to compose...” Emil remarks with a hint of sadness and regret. He swallows down the creeping pessimism, displaying a soft smirk. “Well, I’ve never been good with writing. I just did the music part. But I know a good slogan when I hear it.”

Despite his efforts to appear chipper, Spamton picks up on his unease. “You couldn’t have known. Besides, when you check in I'm always in a tizzy so we rarely talk about work...” He shakes his head as though resetting his frame of mind. “I appreciate you looking it over.”

“Of course.”

“You know - I think this'll make the cut.” Spamton nods with what appears to be genuine optimism.

Emil leans back surprised by Spamton's atypical demeanor. “Yea; I think so too. If it doesn't I'll have to have a word with Sprucem”

They chuckle at the prospect but the humor soon fizzles. Spamton doesn't bid Emil to leave nor does he return to his work. Instead, he stares at Emil with those intense ruby eyes as if attempting to read him. It's clear there's something he wants to broach, but is too afraid or unsure to do so.

“Anything else you need?” Emil asks, aware of Spamton's hesitation.

Spamton shakes his head, but his mask has all but slipped.

Emil bites his lip. “Doesn't have to be about work.”

Spamton seesaws his jaw in contemplation as he picks at the left side of his shirt. “I’m sorry I left so suddenly Saturday.”

“It's ok. You weren’t feeling well.”

“Yea. But it wasn’t because of the food.”

Emil tenses.

He was right.

“I left because I was overthinking again...” Spamton sighs. “I didn't want to end things on a bad note.”

“You didn't leave on a bad note,” Emil comforts. “What were you thinking? Get it off your chest if you need to; I want to help.”

Spamton shakes his head. “It’s not appropriate for work.”

“Door’s closed,” Emil reminds, nodding at the door.

Spamton peaks up at Emil but nerves get the best of him and he averts his gaze. “You said you prefer being - you prefer me to… 'Be the guy,' I guess...” he purses his lips. “I’m sorry… I don’t know what you’d call it. But - I don’t know if I can be that.”

“You don’t have to be and I’d never expect you to be,” Emil reassures. “If it’s not your thing we can try other stuff.”

“No, it’s - I don’t hate it. I mean, I use a pillow for fuck’s sake,” Spamton jokes but it’s clear the statement’s more out of embarrassment than humor. “It’s - I feel stupid when I imagine myself doing that… You know - with... With someone...”

Emil crouches beside Spamton. “That’s normal the first few times. Even with experience.” Emil bites his lip. “Is... Is it because of the stuff you mentioned in the kitchen? How you look?”

Spamton returns a stiff nod.

“None of that bothers me.” Emil leans forward. “Like I said - you're beautiful.”

“I know but when people stare at us it’s hard to ignore.”

“Yea?” Emil chuffs with a grin. “Let them stare. Next time we’ll give them something to stare at.”

Spamton shoots Emil a spent glance and despondent smile.

Emil knits his brow. “That isn’t what’s really bothering you, is it?”

Spamton's smile drops.

“What is it?”

Spamton nods while staring straight ahead before turning to Emil. He strains to maintain eye contact. “I want to apologize...”

“… For what?”

“For what I did Saturday.” Spamton swallows. “All the other times too. I didn’t realize I was hurting you. And... I want you to know I see that now. It won’t happen again.”

Emil blinks a few times as worry skitters through him, causing him to shiver. “Spamton, I - don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Claws dig into flesh as Spamton curls his hands in his lap. “I’ve touched you inappropriately several times. At the bar. When we kissed in your cubicle…” Spamton starts to mutter something but stops. “I did that without asking...”

“... You don’t need to ask to touch me, Spamton. That’s what partners do. It's normal.”

“He did too...”

Emil's mouth drops and he leans back as he catches his breath.

Spamton wilts in shame.

“Hey,” Emil whispers. “Look at me.”

Spamton rocks his jaw in agitation.

“Please…”

Pained ruby eyes meet his own.

“You didn't hurt me.”

“You were terrified, Emil...”

“I wasn’t. The bar? The cubicle? I was skittish is all. Especially since I didn't know how you felt at first and we were at work,” he smirks.

“You weren’t on the bed.”

Emil flinches. Vague recollections flood his consciousness. The sensation of being caressed. Pricked. Pressed, Penetrated... He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You said you have issues with sex. That you drink to tolerate it.”

“Yea...” Emil confirms. “And I told you that’s my problem.”

“That I contributed to.”

“You didn’t...”

“Yes, I did,” Spamton asserts, his gaze retained on Emil. “I didn’t mean to. But I still did. I know what you said and I tried not to worry about it. But the way you grabbed me when I touched you… I keep thinking about it. You looked so upset, I -” he goes mute.

Emil leans in. “You what?"

Spamton's face tenses.

“Spamton.”

“... I felt like I - did something he might've done...”

Silence.

“I know it’s stupid.”

“Spamton -”

“But I’ve felt disgusted since…”

“Spamton -”

“You said even now it hurts. I know you meant emotionally, but -”

Emil spins Spamton's chair around then grips his shoulders. “You’re not and you didn’t. He -” Emil stops himself, choking down the thought with an agonizing gulp. “You asked permission... You stopped when I grabbed you... The fact that this bothers you, that you’re talking to me about it? That means you’re not like him... Ok?”

Spamton remains staring at his lap.

“I trust you,” Emil whispers, his thumbs petting Spamton's shoulders. “And I love being with you. I just need... I need to calm down is all. You do too. You're a good guy, Spamton.”

A minute or so passes and Emil finally feels Spamton relax. Petite shoulders droop as he exhales. “Ditto,” he whispers.

A subconscious smile cuts through Emil's pain. “I’m sorry I've been messy about this.” He inhales slowly; methodically. “I'm trying though. I want to be better. I just... I need a little patience and practice. But this helps,” he gestures between them. “I'm glad you brought it up. That we're talking about it. I'm not used to it.”

Spamton peaks up. “Me neither.”

“Well, that means we're even. We'll learn together,” Emil nods, licking his lips. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then goes for it. "Speaking of learning... When you were on top of me on the couch... Did you like that?”

Spamton's face immediately flushes red. He leans into his chair, turning his attention down and pressing his glasses towards his face. “Of course...” he stammers. “It - it felt really good. Better than a pillow,” he laughs breathlessly.

“Good,” Emil smirks.“Because I want to do that again. Maybe add something new to the mix. If you want, I -”

“Yea.” Spamton responds with eagerness. “Yea,” he repeats with a calmer manner accompanied by a vigorous nod.

Emil rubs Spamton’s cheek, leaning in and giving him a peck on the lips. As he pulls back Spamton leans forward, causing Emil to steady him. “Hey now. We’re at work, remember?” he grins.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Save that for later, ok?”

“Ok,” Spamton returns with a sheepish smile.

“I’ll stop by after work.”

Spamton nods as Emil stands and heads toward the door. He grabs the knob and then pauses. “Good job on the pimple ad. I knew you’d come up with something.”

“Thanks,” Spamton returns with a breathless grin. He sits up in his chair with a noticeable look of pride as an aurora of eagerness emboldens him “I should get back to work.”

“Ditto," Emil salutes.

As Emil takes leave, he stares at Spamton. His snowy plumage contrasts with the dreary background as though he is a beacon of light. He closes the door behind him and stands back. As the pure white plumage of Spamton vanishes so encroaches the ever-present dark. It slithers around Emil's neck. He rubs it absently as he ascends the stairs.

☎

The hustle and bustle of the office becomes faint as hours pass until a few people remain. Soon there's almost none. The last one in the room, a female addison as indicated by her heels, drops something, picks it up, then briskly exits.

Emil flips through his notebook of obligations for the day. He's checked it numerous times but he's lost in a daze, working on autopilot.

It's well after the afternoon check-in and close to closing. Spamton still appeared to be in good spirits relative to normal expectations much to Emil's relief. Although a faint hint of anxiety crept through his queries. It was so mild Emil scarcely noticed. Whatever anxiety nipping at Spamton was likely the client he emailed that morning.

It took most clients a day or two to review submissions from Spamton's department. With d-stack, it could take well over two days. Most addisons thought little about assigned d-stacks as it was easy for them. But not for Spamton, and his job is on the line.

And even though Spamton's employment didn't affect Emil's, he mirrored Spamton's anxiety. A little over a month has passed in Spamton's three-month trial. If he doesn't make the cut…

“Staying late?”

Emil flinches, turning to his left. “Nah. Just a few minutes. Checking off some things is all,” he responds as Spruce inspects him scrupulously. “What about you?”

“Got the kid tonight. Wife's going out with some friends. She’s gorging on sushi on account of not being able to while pregnant. If I made more 'round the clock I'd stay. Sushi's expensive and that woman's a heron...” he snickers.

“I thought your son hatched a while ago.”

“He did, he did... But my wife was paranoid that sushi was bad for breastfeeding. I kept telling her it wasn't, but you know... women, heh. Featherheaded females... Wasn't until she talked to her doctor that she believed me.”

Emil returns an uncomfortable nod as he turns back to his desk. “Well, guess you should go then. Don't want to keep either of them waiting.”

“Hmm...” Spruce nods. “But before I leave, I wanted to talk to you about the upcoming mid-quarter performance review.”

“Don't “worry, I have it marked,” Emil notes, gesturing to a desk calendar with his pen.

“Of course you do,” Spruce adulates. “But it's more on account of Spamton.”

A cold sweat drenches Emil. “... What about him?”

“Well...” Spruce looks down, resting his hands on his hips, expelling a heavy sigh. “Accounting came to me this afternoon going over the budget logs.”

“What's that have to do with Spamton?”

“We've had two clients cancel their contracts.”

“... What's that have to do with Spamton?” Emil repeats with severity.

“Those two clients? Last one to touch them was him.”

“I don't -” Emil leans back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. “That doesn't make any sense... Which accounts?”

“Ms.Spritz™ and Nubi Foot Pads™.”

“I gave those to Rider.”

“After he flunked them...”

“But she was the last one to touch them. They liked her work... They -”

“Were behind schedule because of his revisions. None of which they liked.”

Emil squints. “... By how many days?”

“Two or three,” Spruce answers, crossing his arms.

“That's -”

“Emil, they were behind.”

“Those products don't release until late summer...” Emil counters. “It just turned spring.”

“You know how their production is...”

“Exactly,” Emil gestures with his hand before plopping it atop his thigh. “And, what... You're going to punish Spamton for their clogged pipeline?” he counters. “He barely had those accounts... They're always behind even when we're early.”

“It's not a punishment,” Spruce stresses. “I'm saying -”

Emil stands in defiance. “Saying what, Spruce?”

“Don't get smart...” Spruce snarls.

Emil flinches and averts his gaze. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes meekly. “I'm sorry...”

Spruce sighs. “... We’re going to have to let him go.”

Emil's feet all but buckle as his breath leaves him. Everything evaporates becoming a miasma of ambiguity. He stands there stricken. Feeling nothing. Existing in nothing. It's not until the pain of asphyxiation builds that he inhales sharply.

“... What?”

“Look... I'd keep him if we could -”

“...You said he had until the end of the quarter...” Emil reminds Spruce, his voice breaking. He presses his hand against his throat as he swallows.

“That was before I saw the books.”

“He just turned in a pitch today…”

Spruce cocks his head to the side, dismissing Emil with a weary sigh.

“A really good pitch,” Emil explains, his voice breaking again as his breathing escalates. “You saw it, right?”

“No,” Spruce grumbles with a wave of his hand. “Emil…”

“Look -” Emil spins around to his desk. He clasps the mouse, clicking with desperation through the server. “Spruce, look -”

“Emil -”

“Just look at it.” Emil winces, humbling himself. “Please...”

Spruce scans the document before shooting Emil a questioning glare.

“Give him until - until the end of this month,” Emil begs.

“I can’t...”

“Yes, you can. You - you can go to management. Tell them those clients are - fickle; they'll -”

“Emil, why -”

“You said -”

“No; why do you care so much?”

“I'm team lead. It's my job to care.”

“Yes, Emil... About the team, not just the weakest link.”

A scowl scrapes itself across Emil before he swallows it down.

“... It's my job to care...”

“You're sure that's why?”

Emil's seizes. Something about Spruce's tone gives him pause. Cautionary pause. He nocks his tongue against his canine, choosing his words with intent. “You heard what happened to Spamton, right? When he was a mailman?”

Spruce raises a brow with half interest. “… Some guy socked him. What’s it to me?”

“He was assaulted...”

“Again - what’s it to me?”

“He - he can’t go back. He needs this job, Spruce.”

“Everyone needs a job, Emil.”

"But if he loses this one, he -”

“Can go back to being a mailman if he’s that desperate,” Spruce cuts in. “There's always openings.”

Anger steams through Emil's clenched teeth as he wipes his face to calm down. “He can’t…”

“And that’s my problem?”

“He got that account last week and just turned in that pitch - damn good pitch too. Please…” Emil pleads one last time. “Don’t do this…”

Spruce squints. Fists tighten as he squares off to Emil who doesn’t withdraw. Both men remain steadfast in their position until one finally relents.

“…F-stack,” Spruce snorts. “Not as many as d-stack right now, but enough to keep him here. Best I can barter…”

“Thank you,” Emil sighs, bowing his head and clasping both hands. “Thank you so much, Spruce...”

“... If you step down as his team lead.”

“… What?”

“You’ve been off the past month, Emil. Real off. Management has been discussing it with me for a while.”

“… What?”

“Missing from your desk well after check-ins? Spacing out? … Showing up hungover?”

“That was once…”

“Twice.”

Emil frowns.

“I told you I couldn’t have a repeat of last time…”

“I haven’t done anything...”

“Yet.”

Emil shakes his head in disbelief. “Why are you doing this?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Spruce snaps. “I’m supervisor. It’s my job to tell management what’s going on. It was their call. Not mine. Word travels fast. Better from me than someone else…”

“Spruce -”

“Look, you two do whatever you want off the clock. But I can't afford another incident from you where my job's on the line over some guy. Especially someone like him.”

Fear.

Anger.

Despair.

Everything stops.

“You’re a good guy, Emil. Valuable too. But if you want to forfeit because of some flunkee in a basement, feel free. F-stack and end of the month… Got that, Emil? ... Emil?”

Spruce steps forward and Emil steps back as though they were oil and water. The sound of Spruce's hands falling to his sides and turning to leave echoes through the still.

Emil remains stationary. He waits until Spruce leaves as indicated by the main door closing.

Upon the distant, muffled click of the door, a frantic fever radiates through Emil as he frets over what to do next.

☎

Emil stares at the shabby door in front of him. Vertical lines mark its form from years of wear and rot. Due to a lack of identification, it could be easily mistaken for the cleaning and spare parts closet behind him. And from rumor, it often was.

Beyond the janitor, few traveled down these stairs. As far as Emil knew, it was him and only him. The only one who cared to do outside of obligation.

A familiar emptiness is all that's left from Emil's conversation with Spruce. That ever-invasive rot nibbling away at what little strength remains. He mewls in frustration. Emil doesn't know why he's like this. He doesn't want to be. He's felt moments of happiness, but they're so fleeting they're more like distant dreams, pulverized by the bombardment of intrusive thoughts and doubt. It's coded into every neuron and fiber of his being. With every silver lining looms a foreboding cloud, inevitably consuming what little light there is.

Back and forth...

Back and forth...

He knocks on the door.

“Emil?” Spamton's muffled voice sneaks through the slivers of aged wood.

“Yea..”" he clears his throat, doing his best to appear upbeat. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

Emil opens the door, stepping into the dank and forsaken room. Spamton greets him with a curt wave of his hand and a smile as he pushes up his glasses.

“You're here late, I mean - I'm always here late so...” Spamton fidgets, aware of his awkwardness. “Rough day? You look tired.”

“Yea, umm -” Emil wipes the sides of his mouth, then glides his hand down to his throat. “Was - going through some things with Spruce,” he swallows.

“Oh.” Spamton bites his lip in thought. “Wanna' talk about it?”

Tell him.

Tell him what Spruce said.

“It's - not important,” Emil smiles, waving it off. “Boring office crap. Some shuffling of things...”

Spamton opens his mouth, closes it, and then softly chuckles. "Well, I'm sure it'll work out. Kind of like that ad I turned in.”

“Yea?”

“Yea,” Spamton claims with clear confidence. “Well, I - don't know how it'll do. No one does really... But you thought it was good and - I think so too. I mean - you worked in advertising before this. Who better to trust, right?”

Who better to trust.

“I only composed, Spamton.”

“True, but it still counts,” he asserts with a coy cock of his head and pointing a finger. “You’ve got an eye for these things. You wouldn’t have worked with such big clients if you didn’t.”

There it is again... That innocence...

“Yea?” Emil jests with a faint smile.

“Yea,” Spamton ricochets.

You don’t deserve this.

His support.

His kindness.

You’re a liar.

“Do you think the guys are at the bar?”

Emil's heart skips a beat. “Hmm?”

“The bar,” Spamton repeats. “You go every night, and I think we could both use a breather. And we haven’t seen them in a while. At least I haven’t.”

“Yea...” Emil shuffles about in consternation. “But - uh, do you really want to go?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, it’s - I’ve always pressured you to go. I don’t want to do that anymore if it’s not your scene.”

“You didn't pressure me Emil,” Spamton chuckles.

“Uh...” Emil nods with a smirk. “I'm pretty sure I did.”

“Well, even if you did, it got me out of this dusty dungeon. And I don’t know what my scene is, to be honest. If it weren't for you, I'd be stuck at home surfing the tube,” he snickers. “Besides, I don’t mind, and they’re your friends. I don’t want to stop you from seeing your friends. And I have fun so long as you’re there.”

Emil tenses, straining to prevent a sour expression from forming.

Tell him you don’t want to go.

Tell him why.

Say what you mean, Emil…

“They’re your friends too, Spamton.”

“Hmm...” Spamton purses his lips, picking at the left side of his shirt. “You talked to Trigger, right?”

... Did he?

It’s - blurry…

Emil remembers calling Spamton, but that was late in the night. And he didn’t call anyone on Sunday. There’s a vague recollection of calling someone... Either way, something about the thought makes him uncomfortable.

“Yea,” Emil assures tentatively.

Spamton nods. “Then it’ll be fine. Besides, if I'm serious about getting good at this stuff, I need to be around the likes of him. I'll never make it big if I can’t walk the talk.”

“You mean ‘walk the walk’,” Emil corrects with a weak smile.

“Oh... Is that what it is?”

“Yea.”

Spamton raises his brow, cocking his head to the side. “Huh…”

“Well, if you want to go, I'll drive you.”

“Ah, that would be swell,” he remarks, saving his open file then shutting down his computer.

Emil squints at Spamton's bizarre gratitude. “What, did you think I'd let you walk?” he chuckles. “See you, Spamton,” he mocks with a salute. “I'll meet you at the same place we're going to seconds apart from each other.”

“Ok,” Spamton chuffs with a shrug. “When you say it like that...”

“I'm just joshin'.” Emil pulls his keys from his pocket, gives them a twirl, then clutches them. “Still want to go to the bar though? We can always go to my place. Have some fun there.”

And do what…

Scare him?

Embarrass yourself again?

Have another therapy session with your cock out?

“Tempting...” Spamton smirks, hopping up from his seat. “But for the kind fun you have in mind, I prefer to be cleaner than this.”

“Hey,” Emil smirks. “You're the one who took it there.”

“Fair,” Spamton shrugs. “But it’s kinda’ late and I get up early. With the bar, I can easily bounce. But - if it's ok with you... Can we do weekends? You know, for us?” he asks meekly.

“Of course,” Emil smiles, rubbing Spamton's shoulder. “Weekday or weekend, I'm always a call away.”

Maybe it's butterflies or the warm glow of Spamton's lamp, but there's a golden flush to Spamton's plumage. A softness in his eyes is magnified by his round spectacles. Emil's seen it a few times before, but this is the longest it's persisted.

He's in a good place.

Let him remain.

Emil leans down, kissing him on the lips.

“Oh,” Spamton blinks a few times. “I -” he looks around the office. “Sorry. I still need to get used to that.”

“And I'll help you get used to it,” Emil smiles.

Spamton turns off the light, and they leave the sullen room, closing the door behind them.

Notes:

Life's been lifing so I'm sorry this took so long.

Also, went back and altered two sentences in prior chapters upon realizing I was doing some "telling not showing" for things I think I showed pretty well. Thank you, JustStop's Hazbin Hotel video for motivating me to do this, heh.

Also also, I normally keep a bible when writing, but forgot to for this story. Any continuity errors that exist will be remedied before publishing the next chapter.

Chapter 19

Spamton and Emil saunter through the parking lot towards Emil's car. The sound of distant traffic and their footsteps fill the silence between them.

In truth, Spamton did want to go to Emil's rather than the bar, but the looming thought of intimacy gave him pause despite their resolution. It seems to have given Emil the same pause, as he also appears off, hesitant. The fear of hurting Emil and of underperforming seizes Spamton as it slithers through his subconscious. Yet Spamton wants to, God does he want to. He still has Emil's windbreaker at his place. He would never tell him, but the past two nights he’s used it in ways that disgust him. He hasn't soiled it. No. He's not that depraved. But he has used it to heighten the experience. Held it close to his face as he stimulated himself with fervor, be it by hand or with a pillow. Enduring near suffocation as he pressed it harder and harder against his nose and mouth. Taking in every molecule of Emil's scent while muffling his desperate, lonely cries at night. And after finishing the flood of shame and regret drenched Spamton. It's good to know he hasn't violated Emil, but a semblance of fear remains. The fear that he is perverted. A weak, needy little thing. How can he ever measure up to the men around him? Be the buttress of support Emil needs?

But he has to try.

He wants to try.

He's trying.

If that means engaging more in stressful social scenarios and playing it cool, by god he'll do it. It's this thought that causes Spamton to wince at the idea of engaging Trigger tonight.

The last time they spoke, Spamton trudged home like a sulking child. Embarrassed by his misfortune and insulted by Trigger's condescending nature. If only he could have the upper hand just once. By god, the look on Trigger's face if he were ever so confident and clever. Especially with Emil and Popper present. All of Trigger's bluster would bust. Spamton would finally earn a modicum of respect from peers beyond Emil.

But in truth, Spamton doesn't want that. He doesn't want to piss on someone to show dominance or earn his worth, to earn respect.

Why is this hard? All he wants are friends. To be seen as someone beyond the aberration of his appearance. But it's clear Trigger only values those who tolerate his stinging jabs.

Can he do that? Submit himself to someone so pompous and cruel? Well, maybe not cruel... But pompous? That's as visible as Trigger's smug smile...

If it takes that, he'll do it. Trigger is Emil's friend; after all, he could at the very least do it for Emil. And hell... Maybe then Trigger will consider him a friend too…

The sound of keys scraping against metal stirs Spamton from his thoughts. Emil slides into the driver’s seat and leans over, unlocking Spamton’s door. Spamton steps into the vehicle and sits. The car is old but comfortable. The scent of worn fabric, oil, and gas mixes with Emil’s signature aroma. It’s nice.

“Buckle up,” Emil requests as he inserts the key into the ignition, turning the engine on. The car sputters for a millisecond before settling as the radio clicks on. Emil hastily pressed the play button and a cassette starts. “Feel free to change the tape if you want,” he remarks, peering into his driver’s mirror and backing out.

It's classical music.

“This is fine,” Spamton remarks. “It’s kinda' soothing.”

“Good to hear. That's why I listen to it,” Emil remarks with a smile. They pull up to the lot's entrance, and Emil turns his indicator on. Once clear, he makes the turn, merging into traffic.

Spamton observes Emil. The stark street lights dancing around the flickering hues of virtual ads illuminate him as though he's part of an ad himself. The angle of his face. The cut of his shirt, a few buttons of which are loose. How his hands steer the wheel… Spamton curls his hands into his lap, but the sensation of them brushing against his groin only titillates him more. He sighs sharply, resting them instead at his sides.

Emil, perhaps sensing Spamton oogling, side-eyes him. Spamton turns with haste towards his feet.

“I’m glad you liked the chocolate,” Spamton sputters, desperate to distract his wandering mind.

“Oh,” Emil remarks with his usual scratchy voice. “Yea. I used some of it in my coffee the night I found it. It's really good.”

“You drink coffee at night?” Spamton asks perplexed.

“Yea, sometimes...” Emil taps the steering wheel. “Had a headache.”

Spamton furrows his brow and frowns. “Was it a migraine?”

Emil turns to Spamton with a look of confusion before it shifts to understanding. “Thankfully, not this time.”

“Do they happen a lot? The migraines?”

Emil shakes his head. “If I don't take my meds, am really stressed, or my sleep's off, they can. I'm usually good, though. But yea, coffee and chocolate help with that; for me at least.”

“Huh - maybe that’s why I rarely have headaches,” Spamton notes with interest. “I’m always drinking coffee.”

“You do drink a lot of coffee. Wouldn't surprise me if that's true,” Emil chuckles.

“Yea. That’s cool we got something in common.”

“What do you mean?” Emil asks, giving Spamton an inquisitive glance.

“Oh yea, you don’t… That chocolate you gave me when I first started working with you? I put chunks of that in my coffee.”

“Really?”

“Yea. The coffee they have is watery… The chocolate thickens it.”

“That's actually a good idea... That coffee is watery.”

“Extremely watery,” Spamton laughs. “Too bad I used the last of it not too long ago.”

“Oh...” Emil states with mild alarm. “You should've told me.”

Spamton turns to Emil a tad taut. “Why?”

“So I could've gotten you another one.”

They smile at each other and continue driving in silence.

The faint sound of classical music melds with the passing cars and cacophony of advertisements.

“Emil?”

“Yea?” he responds with a hint of caution.

“Never mind.”

They pull up to a red light. Emil looks over at Spamton. “You sure? Everything ok?” Emil's leaned somewhat forward with his torso turned to Spamton. His mouth's ajar and his breathing's somewhat labored.

“Yea. It’s nothing…” Spamton claims, fidgeting with the left side of his shirt. “Just wanted to thank you for helping me with work today.”

“You’re welcome, but I didn’t do anything. That was all you.”

“You thought my pitch was good. I’ve never had anyone tell me that,” Spamton explains. “That means a lot.” He takes in Emil's presence. How the cool neon green from the dashboard bounces off Emil’s face with a matte effect. “For the first time I - I think I can do this. Other things too, I - know it sounds dumb… but I do.”

The sudden warmth of Emil’s hand around his sends a rush down Spamton’s spine. “It’s not dumb,” Emil comforts. “Of course you got this.”

Spamton gives a curt nod as Emil returns his hand to the wheel and the light turns green. They go down another street before diverting into the garage of Banner’s building.

“Parking's normally packed,” Emil notes, taking a ticket from a kiosk. “If we can’t find a spot, there's almost always some on the street. Hope you don’t mind the walk if we do.”

“Did you forget I almost always walk here?” Spamton chuckles, cocking his head to the side.

“Shoot, that’s right… I did forget. No wonder you’re so fit,” he grins as they turn a corner, going to the bottom level.

Spamton gulps. It feels as though it travels somewhere it should not…

They park and step out of the car. Emil locks it behind him as they head towards the main door.

Spamton feels Emil’s hand glide down the small of his back, tugging him close to his side. He leans into Emil’s embrace as they embark up the stairs.

☎

Spamton stares at the floor as his nerves get the better of him. He's a vague white blur juxtaposed against morphing hues accompanying them as they walk through the bar. A mild pain radiates through his chest. He rubs it in agitation.

Emil talked to Trigger, and no one’s looking at either of them in a way that should cause distress. Yet here he is, distressed.

What’s the worst Trigger will do? Make fun of him? That’s old hat… Make fun of Emil? Now that sparks ire...

This is new territory for both of them. They're a couple now. Who knows what kind of ammo Trigger has lined up for them tonight. He must remain alert, for Emil's sake. Well, Emil can handle his own around Trigger. He has far more composure and experience rolling with Trigger's verbal blows. Yet - and he could be mistaken, Emil seems to be on edge too...

Is it work?

Was it the call with Trigger?

Was it…

“Look what the cat dragged in…”

Spamton startles. Trigger and Popper are at their expected window seating. Lithe golden fingers snap the glass sitting on the table. Trigger takes a sip, his attention locked on the two of them in a manner giving Spamton unease. Trigger swallows, licking his upper lip and giving a soft hiss as he inhales.

“Hey, guys,” Emil greets hoarsely, clearing his throat. Spamton sits with Emil following suit.

“Long time no see,” Trigger notes with a slight slur. “I take it you two have been busy.”

Busy.

The implication of Trigger's statement makes Spamton squirm. He wants to pick at his shirt, but abstains. Any hint of anxiety will surely make Trigger pounce. “Guess, you could say that,” Spamton smiles, earnest to be cordial.

“Gonna’ spill?” Trigger cuts with his query.

“I -”

“I don’t think there’s anything to spill?” Emil interjects with an affable shrug despite consternation lacing his words.

“Oh?” Trigger pretends to look shocked, turning to Popper. “Really? Noth - oh… Because if my memory serves right - which it often does... You cut the conversation short last we talked...”

Spamton turns to Emil in confusion. Emil shoots him a strange glance as he furrows his brow.

“Must’ve been a rough night, huh, Emil?” Trigger asserts, licking his top row of teeth.

Emil leans his head back and swallows. “Yea, I, uh - guess it was. Sorry if I uh - cut it short.”

“Hmm...”

“Work’s been busy. A bit rough.”

“Well, to be expected...” Trigger shrugs. “But at least you got your boyfriend to help you relax,” he smirks.

“... Yea,” Emil acknowledges with hesitation.

A heaviness descends upon Spamton. He scans the table only to find that there are no spare glasses. “Hey, uh, I need to scoot by. I want to get a glass of water.”

“I’ll get it,” Emil remarks with haste. He rubs Spamton’s thigh from under the table, but misjudges the distance and brushes against his groin. Spamton catches his breath, which makes Emil turn to him in alarm. But Spamton gives a curt shake of his head and smiles. Emil takes Spamton's reassurance and departs.

Trigger stares at Spamton with a strange grin, as though savvy to what occurred. But upon Emil's departure, he diverts his attention toward the bar.

Spamton looks at the bar and then back at Trigger. He clears his throat, tapping the table and looking down, unsure of what to say. “So, uh… Long time no see,” he titters.

“Yea...” Trigger remakes absently, his eyes fixed on the bar.

Spamton licks his lips, picking at his shirt. “What uh... What've you guys been up to? How are you two adjusting to working for Banner?”

“Nothing of interest you'd get,” Trigger remarks, tapping the side of his glass.

Well, this is going as expected... What feels like needles prick Spamton with each breath. He turns to Popper, whose attention rests upon the skyline. “Hey, Pops, you guys worked in physical ads, right?”

“Yes,” Popper responds, perplexed as they've spoken of work many times prior. He shoots a cautious glance toward Trigger. “Why ask?”

“Well, I - I was wondering, you know... If it's similar to Banner. The work you guys do.”

“What do you think, Spamton?” Trigger sighs with exasperation.

“I - I don't... Is this a trick question?”

“No, Spamton... I'm asking you what you think...”

Spamton frowns. “I’m just trying to have a conversation, Trigger…”

“So am I,” Trigger shoots back with a raise of his brow.

Spamton purses his lips in frustration. The impulse to snap back's searing, but it won't do any good.

Trigger seems testier than usual. A bit more inhibited, too. A slight slur in his speech is evident, as is a mild lack of coordination. Seeing him in such a way gives Spamton more concern than reassurance about navigating the situation. If Popper's heightened reluctance to engage is any clue, it's best to remain cool.

After what feels like an eternity, Emil reappears with two empty glasses. He gives Spamton a nod and a smile, much to his relief. “Sorry for taking so long. Had to use the bathroom.”

“It’s ok. Welcome back.”

Emil beams at Spamton as he sits, discreetly patting his thigh under the table.

The sensation of Emil’s body next to his. The feel of the fabric and the heat from their proximity excite Spamton… He pours a glass of water to calm his nerves.

“Boyfriend’s blushing, Emil,” Trigger sneers, shooting a coy finger at Spamton. “Might want to take care of that later tonight.”

Emil swallows, glancing at Spamton with a flushed face. He looks down in embarrassment as he also pours a glass. “So... What’s the latest news? Work going well?”

“Yea,” Trigger confirms. “Pops n’ I have been knockin' out ad after ad for Banner. Child's play.”

"Really?” Emil asks, surprised.

“Yea. It’s the amount that’s tiresome. But it has its perks,” he winks. “Right, Pops?”

Popper shakes his head with mild disgust, refusing to elaborate.

“Perks?” Spamton remarks. “Like what?”

A flash of pride reveals itself in Trigger’s grin. “Interns come and go, especially 'round spring and summer. You know… Lookin' for experience; a leg up, one could say,” he explains with vivacious sass. “Which I’m more than happy to provide.”

“Oh, well that’s swell!” Spamton congratulates. “I can see how that’s a perk in terms of building connections. Especially if Banner sees how good of a mentor you are. How many interns do you help? Is it a program?”

Trigger blinks in astonishment before a booming laugh bellows forth. Spamton chuckles out of nerves more than awareness as Trigger wipes his eyes. “Oh my god you’re such a fucking nerd…”

Spamton’s smile drops. He bites his lower lip, looking down in shame.

“Trigger, cut it out…” Emil demands.

“What?” Trigger snaps. “I can’t have a good laugh?”

“He misunderstood is all… No need to be rude.”

“Not my fault it flew over his head. Needs his prescription checked...” he mumbles, leaning back in contemplation as Emil stares him down. “Fine - sorry,” he apologizes with reluctance. “Just fuckin’ with ya’, Spamton...”

“It’s ok,” Spamton accepts the apology, although aware it's not sincere. “At least it’s fun for you.”

“Absolutely,” Trigger asserts, taking a swig from his glass. “I’d rather a pump n’ dump than some hanger-on.”

Spamton shakes his head. “I'm not sure what that -”

“Someone I can fuck n' not deal with their bullshit,” Trigger clarifies. “For some reason, I have a habit of attractin' needy losers who bitch n' moan when I don't call back. S'like they're stupid or somethin'... Most of 'em are though considerin' what they let me do to 'em,” he chuffs.

“Can we talk about something else, please?” Emil interjects, wiping his forehead.

Trigger shoots Emil a piercing glare as he licks his lower lip. “Why? We’re all adults. Even half-pint.”

“Trigger, please...” Emil demands with his thumb pressed against his forehead and his fingers thrust forward in agitation.

“He made a statement, I’m responding to it. It’s called a 'conversation,' Emil.” Trigger argues with a broad, agitated smile. “But sure. Let’s talk about boring shit like work… How was work, Spamton?” he asks with a child-like tone. “Anything you want to prattle about?”

A tinge of agitation nips Spamton. He exhales slowly, reminding himself to remain calm. “Well, no. Mostly working on the same ad I’ve been tackling since last week.”

“What ad?” Trigger prompts as though asking is laborious.

“Oh, I never told you guys,” Spamton titters. “It’s a cream ad - for pimples.”

Trigger sighs, plopping his chin in his hand and patting the table. “Really?” He glances at Emil before correcting his tone. “Tell me more…”

“Oh,” Spamton remarks with surprise. “Ok - umm - but, I… I know it’s not that interesting…”

“Noooo,” Trigger mocks with a wave of his hand. “Don't say that. I’m sure it’s riveting. Tell me, tell me...”

“It’s not,” Spamton admits, more than aware of Trigger's derision. “But I think it has potential. I’m pretty excited.”

“Your pitch for a pimple ad…”

Spamton feels himself deflating but presses onward. "Yea, I mean - sure it's not the most glamorous product or pitch. It's not like what any of you guys do or have ever done,” he remarks, turning to Emil with a smile. “But if I do a good job, that improves it. I'll have helped in some way.”

“What’s the pitch?” Trigger asks with half-interest.

Spamton swallows. “Well, it's, it's not -” he fidgets, shaking his head. “It's -”

“You just said it has 'potential,'” Trigger mocks with a sing-song voice. “If it's that good I'm sure it's up to snuff with what we do, eh?” He jabs Popper, who nearly spills his drink.

“... 'We stop zits when they don’t quit.' That's uh, the pitch I submitted.”

Trigger raises a brow, licking his canine. “Welp, that sure is a pitch.”

“Do... You think it's good?” Spamton asks, a bit hopeful from Trigger's vague tone.

“For you? Sure...”

“I think it's a good pitch in general,” Emil adds.

“Of course you would, Emil...”

“I think so too.”

Everyone turns to Popper in astonishment.

“Really....” Trigger asks in shock.

“Yes. It can be daunting trying to come up with a good hook. I think that’s decent.”

“Wow...” Trigger scoffs with surprise.

Emil squints. “You're saying you've never had trouble with a pitch...”

“Sure maybe,” Trigger shrugs. “Spamton’s talking bargain bin junk though. That's nothing to cheer about if you ask me...”

“So what if I am?” Spamton counters, his confidence bolstered by Emil and Popper’s support. “I worked hard and I’m proud of my work.”

“Well, that's good you find pride hocking garbage from a dusty closet,” Trigger chuffs.

Spamton opens his mouth, his tongue nocked against his bottom teeth, but he redirects. “Yea, you're right. I work in a dusty closet and advertise junk, most of which doesn't make the cut.”

“You mean, 'none of which'...” Trigger snickers under his breath.

“But...” Spamton strains to remain confident and composed. “I'm competing against myself,” he proclaims, pressing his hand against his chest. “If I'm better than before, then that's all that matters.”

“Yea... Keep at it n' you'll surely be a big shot, buckaroo.”

“We all start somewhere, Trigger...” Emil defends. “Wasn't too long ago you were working on mid-grade dealerships doing their ads. Look at where you're at now. Like Spamton said, it's not a competition with anyone else. I'm proud of him,” he turns to Spamton, sporting a smile.

“Well, I'm glad you can revel in your boy toy’s... Small success. When he becomes a big shot it'll be orgasmic for both of you. Depending on how 'big’ he gets...” Trigger laughs, lifting the glass to his lips.

“You're right, Trigger,” Spamton exhales sharply, returning a chipper laugh and locking his hands. “I don’t fuck guys on the job so I doubt I'll ever know what it takes. I, unfortunately, work all day.”

Trigger spits the liquid back into the glass. Golden eyes pierce Spamton's as they stare one another down. “... What did you say?”

“You heard what I said,” Spamton claims with a straight face.

“Say it again…”

“Guys -” Emil interjects.

“Boyfriend’s got a smart mouth, Emil. He should put it to better use…”

“He was just messing around, Trigger.”

“I don’t think he was,” Trigger snaps at Emil with his unwavering glare set on Spamton. “Were you?”

“Trigger…” Popper tries to moderate. Trigger snaps his fingers, flexing his index finger towards his coworker with force. Popper goes silent.

“Were you?” Trigger repeats.

“Trigger, please…” Emil pleads.

“Shut it,” Trigger demands, thrusting his agitation onto Emil.

Spamton rises, hands pressed against the table. “Don’t talk to him that way…”

“It's ok; let’s go…” Emil whispers as he moves to leave.

Trigger slams his hands on the table as he too rises. “Stop,” he commands Emil, who does as told. “Listen and listen good, you little shit…” Trigger snarls at Spamton. “You’re nobody. A loser. A freak.”

“If I'm a loser, then why are you mad?” Spamton huffs in indignation.

“He doesn't mean it, Trigger...” Emil explains in desperation to de-escalate. Spamton turns to Emil in utter shock. “He’s sorry, ok? I - I'm sorry... Please...”

Spamton shakes his head. “Emil...”

A strange rhythmic hum emanates from Trigger as he grins at the two of them. “Emil's smart, you know,” he asserts, wagging his finger. “You're lucky to have 'em. Could learn a thing or two...”

“I know enough...” Spamton asserts, leaning forward with his chin up.

“Spamton, stop…” Emil begs.

“You gloat about fucking guys and dumping them ‘cause you’re afraid. You know they wouldn't stick around if they really got to know you. You’re not a big shot, you’re a coward.”

A demented, sinister sneer cracks through Trigger’s facade. The light catches his golden eyes in such a way that they appear to glow like flames in a furnace.

Without warning, Trigger leaves his side of the table, making way for Spamton’s. But before he can act, Emil rises, blocking the way.

“Trig,” Emil’s voice breaks. “He didn’t -”

“Move.”

“Please, he -“

“I said move…”

“I know you’re mad…” Emil acknowledges, flinching as Trigger shifts his weight. “Let’s -” shoulders hitch upward as Emil strains to swallow, pressing his hand against his throat. “Let’s talk. Let’s go somewhere and talk… Ok?”

Spamton leans to his left to get a better look. Trigger bares his bottom teeth, raking his tongue against them. He pivots walking away with Emil following suit.

Spamton starts to call Emil’s name, but a sudden pressure around his wrist distracts him.

Popper’s leaned forward, gripping Spamton's wrist. Spamton furrows his brow as he attempts to escape. But the stocky addison’s grasp remains firm. Popper shakes his head with a foreboding glare. “I wouldn’t if you care about him…”

Spamton looks at Popper with consternation before whipping his sights to the crowd.

But there’s no one. Just a sea of addisons and smiles as far as the eye can see.

Chapter 20

Notes:

Wow. I haven’t posted since the 16th of April.

Life’s hurdles and obligations have increased. There’s some good news however that will be left as a comment in this chapter. So please check that out.

As for this chapter, heavy content is explored that was laid out in prior chapters. Because these topics are pulled from direct and observed experiences, please be respectful. As with anything I choose to write or display, it is for a reason be it plot or character development. Not shock or cheap thrills.

“Let go of me, Popper,” Spamton demands in a panic, pressing his free hand against the table, straining to escape. But his puny size and Popper’s muscular frame anchor him as if he's chained to a pillar. “Let go!” Spamton’s attention darts from the crowd to Popper, then Popper's wrist. Claws from his free hand sink deep into thick, firm flesh without hesitation. Popper scowls for a second before his demeanor shifts back to the expected stoicism.

Popper’s wrist is bulky, bulkier than the average addison’s. So much so Spamton barely maintains hold. It's as if he's grasping a large pipe. But he tries. Oh, does he try. He tries until pain radiates from strained digits through his forearm. He writhes one or two more times before slumping in defeat. “Please…” Spamton begs. “Let go…”

Popper’s lips part a hair before closing, and he releases his hold. Spamton withdraws with haste, rubbing his wrist. “I know you want to find them, but you won’t,” he informs.

“Because you held me back...” Spamton protests, scanning the crowd. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why'd you hold me back?”

“I was helping you.”

“How?” Spamton spits in frustration.

“It's best to remain put and quiet when they bicker,” Popper explains. “You're new by comparison. Considering the circumstances, I didn't have the time to explain.”

“Whatever...” Spamton disregards, rising from the table and pivoting toward the crowd.

“Where are you going?”

“To look for them.”

“Where?”

Spamton halts. “Around. I'll - look around; ask around.”

“Ask who?”

“The bartenders, the - the - whoever.”

“The bartenders know Emil. Trigger? Not so much.”

“What? He's here every night,” Spamton counters, still soothing his wrist.

“He orders his drink or two and closes his tab early,” Popper explains. “He's not one for idle chatter or heavy drinking.”

“Yea, but they still know of him...” Spamton argues. “Where he might've gone.”

“They're bartenders.”

“So?”

“Bartenders, while savvy, rarely involve themselves in external affairs. Once a patron’s left their bar, they're no longer of concern.”

“Then I’ll ask the crowd…” Spamton persists.

“Buzzed patrons won’t assist much. Let alone for agitated strangers."

Spamton scoffs, trudging forth. “Then I’ll find him myself.”

“You won’t.”

“Fuck you…”

“You need a card key.”

Spamton slams to a halt, swiveling to Popper.

“All levels of this building beyond the bar require card keys.”

“... Do you have one?”

Popper shakes his head. “Only to Banner's floor.”

“Is that where Trigger's taken Emil?”

“Wouldn't know. Even if I knew, I can't access their location.”

“You're on the same floor...” Spamton argues. “You're telling me you don't have access to his office...”

Popper nods. “Correct. I work on the other side of Banner's floor. A lobby and dining area separate my side and his. Trigger's located on Banner's side and has more clearance than me.”

“Do you know anyone else with one?”

“Not aside from janitors. Even if you or I asked a janitor, we'd have to show IDs. You don't have one, and I don't have clearance,” Popper explains, cutting to the chase.

Spamton glances at the ground then back to Popper. “You’re Trigger's friend. If you -”

“He’s not that kind of person, Spamton.”

“You're his friend,” Spamton reiterates with childlike innocence laced with anxiety.

“It’s ok,” Popper reassures. “Sit and wait a few. They’ll be back”

Spamton shakes his head. “Emil could be in danger...”

A strange contortion of Popper’s lips flickers for a moment before vanishing. “If you stay put, he won't be.”

Spamton swallows as he crosses his arms. “That sounded convincing…”

“I understand your concern, but trust me. When Trigger's like this, the only one who can talk sense into him is Emil.”

Spamton stares in the direction of the main door. “How often does Trigger get drunk?”

“Not often. Trigger's not one to knock back drinks like Emil,” Popper explains. “He'd rather watch others fly off the handle.”

“Fly off the handle, huh? And you're trying to convince me Emil's fine...”

“He is.”

“And you know that how?”

“I've seen them bicker twice like this. Emil always calms him. It's a skill I lack, so I don't try, but Emil's got a knack for it.”

Spamton licks his lips and turns, taking a step or two toward the table. “What do you think's bothering Trigger?”

“Don’t know,” Popper shrugs. “Trigger only tells me what he wants me to know.” He lifts his glass to his lips, hesitates, then sips. “He did call late Saturday. Said something about Emil hanging up on him mid-call...”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re around Emil more than me. I'm sure you're aware of his demeanor. It’s not like him to hang up.”

Spamton rocks his jaw as he paces with crossed arms. Eventually, he relents, sighing and sitting at the table. The two addisons stare one another down.

Most addisons are lean by nature. Fit with minimal effort. Popper, by all accounts, is an anomaly much like Spamton himself. He isn't overweight by any means, but stockier and far more muscular. Broad and sturdy.

“How long have you known them?”

“Trigger? Several years. Emil, about a year or so.”

“You guys met at a conference, right?”

“Yes. At least concerning Emil.”

Spamton fiddles with his glass on the table, staring at Emil’s, which is empty. “Have they always been this...” he searches for the right word, “... weird?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Tense. Have they always fought?” Spamton clarifies. “Have -” he stops, redirecting himself. “Do they fight a lot?”

“To this level? No. As I've said, I've only seen it once or twice. But bickering's not uncommon for them.”

“Do you and Trigger fight?”

“We've argued a few times, fought once."

“... Why do you hang out with him?”

Popper stares at Spamnton in deep contemplation. “Because we’re coworkers.”

“I mean at the bar,” Spamton gestures between them.

Popper sips from his glass. “We’re coworkers.”

“... That doesn't make sense...” Spamton criticizes, shaking his head.

“How so?”

“Why hang out with a jerk? I mean - you always look bored and annoyed when you're around him. I don't get it.”

“Business. He's good at his job, and I'm good at mine.”

“Yea, but - you don't have to hang out with him after work,” Spamon rebuts. “Why do it?”

Popper adjusts his posture, resting his arms on the table as he leans forward. “It's a benefit to remind those you work for of your worth. Physical proximity is the most effective reminder.”

Spamton leans back, furrowing his brow. “... You're using him?”

“Yes. We both are.”

Spamton shifts his glass. “You're not even friends?”

“Depends on what you mean.”

Spamton lifts his head, turning it slightly to the side. “That didn't answer my question...”

Popper side-eyes Spamton as he sips from his glass again. “Fair.”

Ruby eyes turn their attention towards Emil's glass. “What about Emil? Is he your friend or are you using him too...”

“He's my friend.”

Spamton blinks in astonishment at Popper's quick response. Yet doubt makes itself known in his scrupulous scowl. “Sure...”

“I get your skepticism,” Popper acknowledges, nonplussed. “But I'm telling the truth.”

“Yea?” Spamton scoffs.

“Emil's employed at a staggering company making products most discard in bargain bins if not the dump.”

“Then why -”

“He's kind. Too kind...” Popper remarks, swallowing any apprehension that might have made itself known. “He's a good man. I don't want to see that exploited.”

“And you let him go with Trigger...”

For the first time, Spamton witnesses an uninhibited display of offense. “You think I haven't tried stopping them before?”

Spamton rocks his jaw, returning a solemn nod. “Well, it’s nice to know you care about someone.”

“You’re naive but well-intentioned.”

“No reason to bring that up, but thanks, I guess…”

“I thought it only fair since you’ve asked me my opinions and relations with Trigger and Emil.”

“Yea, but I'm not part of your circle, so...”

“It wasn’t a criticism. Only observation.”

“Ok,” Spamton stresses with agitation, “I don’t need your observations either. We’re not friends, you've made that clear. Everyone's made that clear,” he chides, gesturing at the table. “I’m a loser so there's nothign to gain. Got it...”

Popper tilts his head. “I’ve never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. I’m not stupid...”

“You're not. You’re perceptive, but in this regard, you're wrong.”

“Thanks for the dissection, Pops,” Spamton smirks, slapping his hand on the table. “But I’ve had all I can take.”

“Do you think I hate you?”

“What do you think?” Spamton asks in exasperation, raising his hand and letting it fall atop the table.

“I don't want to presume.”

“Yes. I think you hate me...” Spamton reveals, turning his attention toward the window.

“I don't.”

Spamton turns back to Popper.

“I've presumed things, sure. But I've been proven wrong many times. You are strange. Very strange and abnormal to what I'm used to... But you're not malevolent or exploitative. Your intent is genuine. I don’t want to see that misapplied to your detriment.”

Spamton stares at Popper, who returns him a passing glance before he leans back and looks toward the crowd. Spamton peers into his glass, and then the others scattered about the table. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Although I can’t guarantee you’ll like my response.”

“I dunno’ how close you are to Emil but,” Spamton sighs, turning the glass. “Do you think you could hang out with him? Just you and him? Introduce him to other people?”

Popper furrows his brow. “As in my friends?”

“Yea. If you - I mean - just - introduce him to people you think he’d get along with.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” Spamton stammers, almost knocking over his glass. “No - umm, I’d make it weird; I’d -” Spamton bites his lip, fidgeting with the glass.

“Be fine.”

“What?”

“You’ll be fine.”

Spamton shakes his head, shooting a subtle smirk.

Popper furrows his brow. “Do you think you can't make friends?”

Spamton sucks in air through his teeth and then wipes his mouth as he stares at the table.

A rummaging sound catches Spamton’s attention. Popper rises at a strange angle, taking something out of his pocket. It’s a pen and a notebook.

The pen moves atop the paper with calculated movements as though it were guided by an automaton.

“Here,” Popper remarks, ripping the paper in half, handing both pieces to Spamton.

Spamton looks at what’s written. It’s Popper's address and number. Both of which display the most pristine penmanship.

Spamton smiles, returning Popper a nod, and much to his surprise, Popper does the same.

In all the time he’s known Popper, he’s never so much as seen him smirk. For one reason or another, Spamton blushes as he looks at the crowd.

☎️

Feet move with caution against a carpeted floor as Emil approaches a door. Its facade is a rich red mahogany, and there's a plaque dead center at eye level.

Trigger

Cinematographer

"It's unlocked," Trigger slurs, causing Emil to flex. "Go."

Emil does as told, opening the door and stepping inside.

The floor's furnished with a royal purple tight-weave carpet. It's clean, lacking any stains. A rich red mahogany desk is before him. Setting atop it are the expected office wares. Computer, calendar, and a digital telephone. Behind it is a printer and various filing cabinets alongside an office plant and a framed painting.

Emil flinches. He expels a sharp breath as the door snaps shut behind him. Trigger brushes against Emil's side in passing, causing a chill to run down his spine.

Golden plumage stands in stark contrast to the cooler hues of the office. Trigger plops into his office chair, turns on a desk light, and leans his head back. The chair swivels lackadaisically as he spins it around to face Emil. The thud of feet crossing themselves atop the desk gives Emil alarm.

"Nice space you got," Emil smiles with his side facing Trigger and his hands in his pockets.

"Cut the shit, Emil..." Trigger slurs, tapping the armrest. "You wanted to talk? Talk...”

Emil licks his bottom lip and faces Trigger. "Just thought you could use a breather, is all. Must've been a stressful week for you."

"Huh..." Trigger notes with a slack jaw. "You'd rather pussyfoot instead of telling me what's on your mind..."

Emil knits his brow in bewilderment.

“Fine," Trigger chuffs. "Since you wanna' play stupid, I'll cut to the chase... You're mad I didn't bend over backward for your butt buddy like you wanted me to. 'N 'cause the lil' shit threw a fit you dragged me here for a lecture. Sound about right?”

"I'm not - trying to lecture you Trigger," Emil reassures. Trigger sucks in air through his teeth with contempt. "I just - don’t understand, is all…”

“What don’t you understand, Emil,” Trigger asks, wagging his foot.

“You told me, on the roof, that there were good things, objective things you liked about Spamton.”

“Never said I liked him," Trigger corrects without missing a beat.

Emil sighs. “Ok, you don't like him. But why? Can't -" he rubs the nape of his neck. "I know it's been rocky for both of you, but Spamton - he really wants to make this work."

"Could've fooled me."

"I'm serious, Trig. He just wants to be your friend, and it bothers him that you two can't get along. I think if you both -"

“I tolerated the lil’ snot more than necessary. That was my attempt.”

“Trigger…”

“Then he yapped at me..." Trigger snarls. "He has a habit..." he wags his finger, "nasty lil' habit of yappin'..."

“He didn’t mean it. He was just -”

“Then why'd he do it?"

Emil opens his mouth, hesitates, then proceeds. “You said some hurtful things about him."

Trigger shoots Emil an agitated glare.

"That he perceived as hurtful; about him..." Emil revises. "And -" he strains to swallow. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hurt, too."

"God..." Trigger moans, slinging his head against the chair's headrest.

"You say hurtful things, Trig," Emil explains with a submissive tenor. "Not just about him."

Trigger lazily lifts his head and inspects Emil before frowning in disgust. “Come on…"

“I’ve - I’ve put up with a lot from you because you’re my friend," Emil labors to reason, taking a step forward. "Because you've - been there for me. You say you're joking, but it hurts." He blinks a few times, rubbing his forehead and swiping back his bangs. "It really hurts. And I - I don't know where it's coming from. You've never -”

“Fuck, Emil; you act like we’re dating…” Trigger snickers shaking his head.

“Trigger,” Emil presses, "I'm serious. I don't -"

“Fine,” Trigger spits. “Fine… If it makes you shut up - I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. That good?" he mocks, gesturing with both hands.

Sorrow overcomes Emil as he moans in utter dejection.

“But fuck boy can fuck off…”

"Please - don't call him that," Emil dismally requests.

"I'll call him whatever I want."

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“Oh, shut up..." Trigger waves off with a cackle. "You two haven’t even fucked yet. If he can even do that, considering his stature... Wait -" he sits up. "Have you seen it? How big is it? How's it feel?" Eyes widen with impish mockery as both hands rise as if told to freeze. Trigger lifts up his index finger, points to it, and then his pinky with a smirk.

"We're not -"

"Have you jerked him off at least?"

Emil flushes red.

"Oh..." Trigger grins from ear to ear. "So, uh - how'd he 'measure' up?"

"We're not discussing this," Emil declares with a stern tone.

Trigger snickers. "Was it 'cause he lasted only a second? It was less than that, wasn't it? Oh," he snaps his fingers, "too scared to get it up?" he prods while leaning forward with a tilt of his head. "Or were you?"

"I said we're not discussing this..."

"Don't be prude," Trigger scoffs, "I know you inside and out. Literally..."

Emil nocks his tongue against his lower canine. “This isn’t about us.”

There's a sudden shift in Trigger's demeanor. His eyes, piercing as always, shine like daggers as he thrusts a scrupulous stare. “You sure, Emil? You sound upset."

"Because you're -"

"Cuttin' a bit deep? Doesn't feel good, does it? Being called out on your shit. Speakin' of calls, you hung up pretty fucking fast last we talked…”

Emil leans back, baffled by Trigger's shifting ire. “I’m sorry. I - I don't -"

"Remember?'" Trigger badgers, sitting up, planting his feet on the ground. "What... Guilt at ate ya'? Panic? Sloshed it down with shōchū?"

Emil shakes his head. "Trigger, I really don't -"

“Pulled the landline too," Trigger thrusts with a furrowed brow.

...

Pulled the landline?

"I don’t remember. I must’ve pulled it by accident. I -” When Trigger clenches the chair's armrests, Emil softens his tone. “I was inconsiderate; rude. I'm sorry.”

Trigger mulls Emil's apology, rolling his jaw in agitation. "How can you be sorry for something you don't remember, Emil?"

"I -" Emil throws his hands in the air in frustration. “What do you want me to say?"

Trigger scowls, puffing air between pursed lips.

"Please," Emil begs, approaching Trigger's desk. "You know I don't like this. I imagine you don't either." He sighs, rubbing his brow. "You’re my friend. Please. Tell me what you need.”

“I want you to go down there, bring him up here, and have him apologize."

Emil shakes his head, returning a few stunned blinks.

Trigger retains his cold yet piercing gaze on Emil as a sinister silence slithers between them.

"You wanna' fix this?"

"Trigger -"

"I said, 'do you want to fix this...'"

"... Yes."

"Then do it," Trigger snaps his fingers, directing Emil to the door. He snatches the card key from his pocket, throwing it at Emil’s chest. "Now."

Emil jerks as the sharp end of the plastic pricks his chest. As though in a trance he takes a step back, then another until he's at the door. He clutches the knob and starts to turn it when something compels him to stop. His hand falls slack. As it descends, the heat from his grasp evaporates, revealing his reflection.

It's distorted...

Fingers trace themselves from his clavicle down his chest. He swallows, pivoting back toward Trigger, then commits, turning in full. "Will you apologize too?"

"... Get out..."

“What?”

"Get... Out..."

“Trigger, come on…” Emil presses his hand against his breast. "Please don't be this -"

"I don't care where you go, Emil. To the bar to blackout or your place so that albino freak can fuck you stupid. Leave."

Emil points at Trigger in retaliation with a snarl, his ire struck. "Stop insulting h-"

A sudden clang clamors through the room as Trigger's chair slams against the metal cabinet. Before Emil knows it, Trigger's mere inches from him. Emil tries to back up, but can’t. He’s pressed against the wall.

“Don’t you ever fucking tell me what to do, got that?”

The heat of Trigger’s fury entangles itself with Emil’s fear as they pant.

“I’m not - I’m -” Emil hyperventilates, clutching his throat.

“Listen…”

“Tri-"

“I said listen… I don’t deal with duds and I don’t submit to scum like him… I don’t like him. Never did. Never will. And I refuse to put up with your constant bitching and whining." As Trigger shifts his weight, Emil shrinks. "... Pathetic...”

“... What?” Emil whispers.

“Pathetic. You're pathetic, Emil."

“You’re - you’re drunk… You don’t -"

“Oh, I mean it, Emil… you’re pathetic. You're like all the others. Desperate and needy... But - you were a good fuck... Won’t deny you’re a looker,” Trigger remarks, sliding his fingers atop Emil’s cheek. Emil shivers and seizes upon Trigger clasping his chin. “But that mouth of yours…” A sharp golden claw pricks Emil’s bottom lip, pressing down. "It's lost its charm..."

A sharp moan from Emil brushes against Trigger’s face. Trigger's pupils, laced with pools of gold, consume them until they're black pits. “Huh… Some of it’s still there...”

Emil gulps. "Stop..."

Trigger raises a brow. “Stop what?”

Emil remains mute.

Trigger anchors the rest of his fingers around Emil’s jaw, clasping it taut and pressing him harder against the wall.

Emil compels himself not to writhe as the pressure mounts. Without warning, warm digits slide against Emil's flesh above his pubic area. He gasps, buckling from the sensation. Trigger grips Emil's belt, steadying him.

A carnal growl emanates from Trigger as claws dig deeper into Emil’s face. “It’s been a while. These interns?” he chuffs. "Fuckin' babies. Tight but stupid…” He licks his lips as the heat of his breath drenches Emil. “You’re the only one who's ever been on my level...” He shakes Emil’s face in agitation. “And you’re wasting it on him…"

Trigger's image mutates and distorts as the stinging sensation of tears blinds Emil.

Trigger sighs, flinging Emil from his grasp. Emil stumbles, catching himself on the whiteboard behind him. “Get out and get Pops,” Trigger commands with a lazy wave, trudging back to his chair. “I feel like I’m gonna’ barf…”

☎️

Spamton scans the crowd. His awareness, once heightened becomes more and more subdued with each passing minute.

Familiar sounds and movements that are all too common in such a place blend into white noise. Addisons of many hues move about like an amorphous automaton. Chaotic yet controlled. Automatic yet aware. Any slight deviation causes him to perk up, ruby pupils dilating as he hones in on the anomaly, only to find it to be of no importance.

It’s been well over half an hour since Emil left with Trigger. Although Popper said it was best to stay put, every fiber of his being tells him something's wrong. Gravely wrong…

“Do you drink?”

Spamton flinches, surprised by Popper’s query. “What?”

“Drink. I’ve never seen you drink.”

Spamton shakes his head. “Here and there. It’s not my thing.”

“Hmm…” Popper ruminates.

Spamton sits up as an addison matching Emil’s hue catches his eye, but it isn't him... He sinks back into his seat like a stone. “Popper, I know your key can’t access the entire floor but I think I should -”

“Hey.”

Spamton spins to his right.

“Emil,” he exclaims breathlessly.

Emil smiles at Spamton, but it’s pained… Not only that but there's a strange, agitated sway to his stance. As though he's fighting an urge to both flee and fix himself in the present. Emil maintains this trance-like state for a second or two before turning to Popper as though surprised to see him. “Pops -” his voice cracks. He swallows, rubbing his throat. “Trigger wanted me to fetch you.”

Popper glances at Spamton and then back to Emil. “... Why?”

“I -” Emil twitches with clenched teeth. “I dunno’, he - he mumbled something… Umm -” he rummages through his pocket, pulls out Trigger's card key and almost drops it. “Here,” he hands it to Popper. “Uh - I’m sure you - you know where he…”

“Yes…” Popper affirms, taking the card with caution. “Are you -”

“What?” Emil snaps.

Popper furrows his brow. “... You’re rattled…”

“No I’m - It’s just - it’s late and I - I think - I should head home. We -” he gestures to Spamton while retaining his attention vacantly ahead. “We should head home.”

“Let me drive," Popper offers.

“No - I - that would put you out of the way.”

“I don’t live far.”

“No, it’s fine. Besides I need to drop Spamton off. We have work in the morning and he gets up early. Really early," Emil titters, rubbing his throat, his index finger gracing the side of his jaw. “I don’t want to pay for overnight parking.”

“We can take the bus,” Spamton interjects. “I’ll pay for both."

Emil jerks toward Spamton. A sharp breath leaves him upon coming to, clutching the collar of his shirt. “That’s silly. Paying for parking and the bus when I have a car,” he laughs, unable to maintain eye contact. He bites his lip, winces, then turns to Popper. “I’m sorry I’m making you go up there. I -”

“It’s ok,” Popper reassures, getting up with the card key in hand.

“No, I ruined things. I -”

“It’s ok,” Popper states softly, steadying Emil with his hand on his shoulder. He maintains the gesture for a moment while sneaking Spamton a knowing look, then heads toward the crowd.

Spamton watches as Popper becomes lost in the crowd before turning his concern to Emil.

Emil stands blank and bleak. Listless eyes gape toward the horizon. Lax digits hang below his neck, hooked within the crease of his loosened collar.

“Hey…” Spamton calls out with caution. When no response comes, he tries again. “Emil.”

Emil remains mute.

Spamton rises, yet Emil still doesn’t respond. He mulls over his options, finally deciding a gentle tap wouldn’t hurt.

Upon gracing Emil’s limp hand, Emil seizes, sucking in air through clenched teeth as he pulls back.

Spamton stumbles in surprise. He opens his mouth but hesitates.

It's evident Emil’s too disheveled, disordered, and distraught to function.

"Let’s go somewhere quiet; cool off a bit,” Spamton suggests. “We can sit in your car. Turn on the radio.”

Emil’s bottom lip quivers, but he swallows, suppressing whatever swell vying to spew forth. “Yea,” he nods absently. “That sounds nice…”

A strange ambiance fills the space between them as they sift through the sea of patrons. Everything feels - surreal… Despite his lucidity, Spamton feels discorporated. No one pays them mind nor do they bump into anyone. They trek through the fog of addisons and patrons like specters. Unseen and undetectable. Like oil through water.

Spamton looks up at Emil. Despite his external placid demeanor, fear shivers forth from stilted breaths. He walks as if he's approaching the gallows. And in truth, Spamton feels the same.

Chapter 21

Notes:

Sorry for the long delay between chapters.

Life is still doing its thing, much to my chagrin.

On the plus side, have some bust doodles of Emil.
💙 https://www.furaffinity.net/view/56939960/

Thanks for any kudos and comments as always.
💗🤍💛

The clack of heels echoes through the garage as Spamton and Emil make their way to the car.

Both have been mute the entire trek from the bar yet Spamton paid heed to Emil's demeanor the entire time.

How Emil slouches. His intense and avoidant gaze to the nothing before them. The very sight simmers an ache within Spamton's heart.

He should've followed them.

He should've intervened.

He didn't.

Like fuel to the furnace, the more Spamton ruminates the brisker his gait becomes. He walks with such haste that, despite his height, he almost passes Emil.

Emil hooks toward their right, causing Spamton to become more present and follow suit.

Keys jingle and jangle in the formidable still as Emil struggles to open the door.

The sudden clang of metal against concrete makes Spamton flinch. Emil picks up his keys and opens the door.

Emil’s hand is somewhat visible through the matte reflection of the glass as is the sound of the lock popping.

Spamton opens the door, sits, and then closes it. Once settled, as settled as he can get, he sighs, slicking back his crest. He turns to Emil who, though uneasy, returns Spamton a soft smile and a strained swallow.

Emil taps the wheel’s rim. “Well,” he sighs with a chortle, “that could’ve gone better.”

“Yea…”

Emil turns the car on partway and reaches for the radio.

“Hey, can we - can we sit for a bit? Talk?”

Emil hesitates. “... Sure.” He turns off the car, staring straight ahead. “What did you… What’s on your mind?”

What’s on his mind?

What isn’t on his mind…

“A lot of things. Mostly what’s… What’s going on with you and - and Trigger.”

Emil swallows. “What do you mean?”

“... What happened?”

“Tonight?” Emil asks stiffly.

Spamton glances at the ground and then back to Emil with concern. “Yea.”

“Trigger uh -" Emil taps the wheel, straightening his back. "He’s not much of a drinker..."

“I mean when you two left."

“But,” Emil continues, “I mean - I’ve done that. Gotten a bit testy when tipsy. He’s just -”

“Emil -”

“- he’s not good with his drinks, and -”

“Emil…”

Emil pauses. Ragged, heavy breaths trudge from his lungs. He swallows rubbing his jaw and neck. “We talked a bit...”

“About what?”

Emil nocks his tongue against his lower canine. He shakes his head, swiping back his bangs. “About what happened downstairs, um - he, was a bit too buzzed to listen,” he titters. “But I’m - I’m gonna’ call him tomorrow. When he sobers up.”

“... I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“Hey, I know you think he hates you, but he doesn’t. I -" Emil stalls, his jaw goes slack for a second. "I think... If we do something outside of the bar...”

“Emil -”

“I don’t know what, but -”

“This isn’t about me liking him or him liking me. I - honestly don’t give a shit about him at this point. He can hate my guts for all I care.”

“Spamton…”

“I’m concerned about you.”

Emil goes mute.

“Really concerned…”

Emil swallows, licking his lips, then returns his attention to the wall before them. “You don’t have to be concerned. Trigger can be a jerk sometimes but, he’s not a bad guy.”

Spamton furrows his brow as discontent forged from restrained ire seeps through. “Is that why he cut your lip?"

Emil returns a few rapid blinks then frowns. “That's -”

“An ‘accident’?”

Emil closes his mouth, casting his gaze downward.

“Is that what you were gonna’ say?”

Silence.

“Tell me,” Spamton implores, tempering his tone. “Tell me the truth. Please…”

Emil opens his mouth. His head bobs forward as what little composure he's maintained corrodes. His jaw rocks in agitation as he wipes his mouth again, resting his index finger on his lips and the rest on his clavicle.

“Emil... Please...”

“… It was an accident…”

Spamton scowls, turning away.

“He didn’t mean to. ”

“He put his hands on you…” Spamton deduces, his morale melting from the flame of indignation.

“Only because he was drunk…”

“'Only because he was drunk'?!”

“Yes…” Emil asserts with a stern tone. “You don’t drink. You wouldn’t -”

“He put his hands on you!”

“Stop yelling... ” Emil requests, rubbing his temple and wincing.

“He put his hands on you...” Spamton repeats with a smolder.

“He didn’t mean it...” Emil snaps, his lip quivering.

“Don’t tell me what he didn't mean when I can see it...” Spamton seethes.

“No - you weren't there. I got in his face and pressed him too hard...”

“Emil -”

“I said things I shouldn’t have. I -”

“Stop -”

“It was my fault.” Emil’s voice breaks, the hand gesturing to himself shaking. “He wouldn’t have scratched me by accident if I didn’t provoke him...”

"Emil, please..." Spamton bares his teeth as though stung. "... What happened..."

“It’s not important...”

“So he assaulted you over 'nothing'…”

"It wasn't assault."

"It is."

Emil swivels back toward the steering wheel, resting his head in his hand against the door's rim. “Can we talk about this later..."

“No..."

“Please. It’s late…”

“I don’t care how late it is.”

“I do...”

“Then stop lying...”

Emil scowls.

“Why are you protecting him?”

“I’m not...” Emil growls.

“You are…”

“I’m not protecting him... It was nothing. You’re overreacting...”

"Fuck it...” Spamton reaches for the latch.

“Spamton,” Emil catches his breath. “Wait - I’m sorry. Spamton, please…” He reaches out, gripping Spamton’s shoulder.

Spamton recoils as if skewered with a soldering iron. “Don’t touch me!”

Emil retracts with urgency. “I’m sorry. I’m - please don't leave!”

“Why?! So you can lie to me more?!”

“Please -”

“Why...” Spamton presses, his voice shaking. "Why are you defending him?! He’s a piece of shit!”

“He’s my friend...”

“Is that what you let 'friends' do, Emil? Let them - let them put their hands on you?”

“Stop…”

“Let them cut you into pieces?!”

“I said stop!” Emil snaps.

“No! You’re defending an abuser and lying to my fucking face!” Spamton grimaces as he swallows. What feels like thorns pierce his throat. “I’m your boyfriend!” he reminds thumping his chest. “You should be able to trust me! It’s my job to protect you! And you -” his jaw trembles. “You tossed me like garbage…”

Emil's shoulders drop as does his voice. “You’re not garbage…”

“Then why are you treating me like I am…”

“I’m not - I’m sorry… I -”

“You are...”

Emil frowns. “You were making it worse…”

“... Excuse me?”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t…”

“Sorry!” Spamton spits. “I’m sorry I give a shit! I’m sorry I love -" He seizes, quickly turning away. Claws dig deep into his shirt.

Emil's temper softens. “It’s only been a week… You’re -”

Ruby eyes dart toward Emil. They glisten from unshed tears in the gloomy garage. “Does it have to be romantic to have meaning to you?"

Silence.

“I love you, Emil. I care. I… Even if we weren’t together I'd care. If I found out he touched you; if anyone touched you, I'd care. I’d still be in this car with you because I care..." His voice breaks. "That’s what you do when you love someone. Boyfriend or not…”

An uncomfortable silence sits between them. Neither looking at the other. They stare ahead and only ahead at the stained, dilapidated wall caked with oil and debris. The sound of a pedestrian wandering the concrete labyrinth cuts the tension for a moment. And like miasma, they choke once more with the awareness that they're both in a snare.

Emil swallows. Heavy breaths quake from his chest as he strains to speak. “I asked him to apologize to you. To stop insulting you. Because you’re my boyfriend. Because - ” Spamton can make out the sound of Emil wincing and a strained breath. “Because I love you…”

Spamton turns to Emil. There's a strange calm about his demeanor. A detached, defeated vacancy in his eyes.

"You’re right. I shouldn't have gone up there," Emil states with clarity. "I deserved it.”

Spamton juts forward in horror. “No.”

“All those other times too...”

“Don’t say that,” Spamton demands with a repentant tone. “Don’t you ever say that...”

Emil shakes his head.

“Emil, don't - please,” Spamton begs, placing his hand atop Emil's. "Don't say that. No one should ever abuse you. Ever.”

“You were right.”

“No I wasn’t.”

"You were,” Emil smiles weakly.

“No -”

“I'm stupid and pathetic." Emil graces the scar along his jaw, staring in the mirror. “And a coward. There’s no hiding that.”

“You stood up for me. Twice," Spamton reminds with shallow breaths while gripping Emil’s thigh, desperate to break Emil's trance. “That's not pathetic. You're not a coward.”

“I let him hurt me.”

“No - you didn't - listen; that’s not your fault. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I said that… I'm stupid," Spamton jostles Emil as he thumps his chest. “I'm the stupid one.”

“And I didn’t stop him..." Emil continues, lost within the haze of his thoughts.

“That’s not -“

“... Even when he groped me. I didn’t stop him…”

Silence.

Spamton isn't aware that his hand’s gone slack nor that neither has moved in several minutes. All his attention is retained upon Emil.

Emil’s placid and still like a doll. Detached from the very essence of what it means to be.

Whatever emotions Spamton felt prior have eroded. All that remains is a dense numb core. All he sees is Emil. All he hears are his own sharp, elongated breaths. All he feels is nothing.

“Hey!”

A loud bang radiates like the blast of a gun through the vehicle. Spamton inhales sharply, claws dig deep into the seat beside Emil’s thigh and his own. His attention darts to the mirror, but he’s too short to see anything. He turns with haste towards the back window. Nothing.

A succession of rhythmic bangs radiate through the car this time from Emil’s side.

Emil stares straight ahead, unphased by the commotion.

Spamton’s keen eyes dart about until noting a faint cast shadow. A hand of indiscernible hue slides against the matte glass. Dirt and debris culminate against flesh as it drags down with discord until resting at the door's rim.

A head swivels downward in front of Emil. It jerks up, bobbing for a moment as it steadies. Then that all too familiar, sinister sneer makes it known who it is. Vibrant white teeth gleam through the disturbed surface like a fox sensing its prey.

“Heeey, about earlier - umm -” Trigger taps the glass, vying for Emil's attention, but he remains mute and still. Trigger opens the door, resting his hands on the frame to balance himself. “Talked to Pops. I uh… Call me. Tomorrow. You’re ‘sensitive’ so I know you need -” Rich golden eyes lock onto Spamton. “Oh,” he smirks. “Did I interrupt something special?” he chuffs glancing at Emil and then back to him.

“Leave…” Spamton snarls.

“Just havin' a chat, shortstop.”

“Leave…" Spamton repeats through gritted teeth. “Now…”

“Ok, lover boy… But uh, since I'm here, lemme' give ya' some tips. Do it in the back n’ not this garage,” Trigger wags his finger. “S’too classy. They’ll catch ya’. You're short so you don’t need to put the passenger seat down. But, uh - as for the act itself, you’ll be fine. Even with that joystick you toy with you’ll get your rocks off,” he snickers. “Blue boy here's tight. Reeeeal tight. Even you could make him moan. Especially if you liquor him up," he chuffs. "But, uh - he cries sometimes. Don’t know why. But when he does? Oh…” Trigger nods with a wink, biting his lip, as he brushes Emil’s bangs to the side.

The numbness Spamton felt moments ago gives way to a feverish heat. It condenses more and more until it has nowhere else to go. Before he knows it, he’s exited the vehicle. A boom radiates through the garage as he slams the door, making his way toward the back of the car when something catches his arm.

“Let him go, Pops,” Trigger demands with a twirl of his finger.

“Spamton, get back in the car,” Popper commands with a stern stare while releasing him. “Trigger, let's go. Now.”

“Calm down,” Trigger slurs with a sneer. “Just givin’ my man Spam some tips. He’s no Narihira you know…”

The moment Spamton senses Popper’s distracted he cuts between the two of them.

"Spamton!" Popper hisses.

"I'll say this once and only once..." Spamton remarks, his hands coiled into tight, throbbing fists. "If you touch Emil - so much as talk to him again, I'll -"

"What?" Trigger mocks, cupping his hand against his ear. "Can't hear you from up here."

"You heard me..."

Trigger huffs. "You'll what, huh? Get some stilts and show me what's what?" He kneels, getting on Spamton's eye level mere inches from his face. Lithe digits grip Spamton’s jaw like withered branches adorned with thorns. Trigger jostles his face about to the cadence of his words. "You won't do shit, nitwit."

Spamtom was meek by nature. Not one to cause trouble when it was wise to abstain. Diligent and dutiful so as to not ignite consternation. Even in social scenarios, he relented. He was all too aware of his status.

Yet, a part of him itched to fight back against mistreatment. Fight back against the ills that were his predicament by nature and circumstance.

And at this moment, the heat brewing within the once numb core juts through his muscles like a bullet until reaching the subcritical mass of his coiled fist.

Flesh and bone fuse with flesh and bone. Knuckles scrape and dig against the grooves and crevices of Trigger’s eyesocket and upper jaw. The index knuckle of Spamton's hand catches against bundled flesh until tension gives way to air and he stumbles.

Spamton steadies himself as he pants, returning a stupefied stare at the ground. Trigger’s not moving. Blind adrenaline gives way to clear panic as he observes the palm and backside of his hand. Flecks of yellow litter his snowy plumage as do specks of red.

“Get in the car,” Popper demands pushing Spamton back, which snaps him to.

Spamton shakes his head in horror. “I didn’t…”

“Get in the fucking car.”

With assistance from Popper, Trigger sits up. He blinks in befuddlement and winces as he rocks his jaw. He wipes his nose and mouth, and as his hand glides down, crimson blood stains his golden facade.

“Get up,” Popper ushers while lifting Trigger. “I’m taking you home.”

Spamton looks up as the sound of shoes pivoting with haste against the rough floor alarms him. A bloodied palm grips his neck, hoisting him in the air.

“You little maggot!” Trigger exclaims as though proud.

"Trigger!" Popper shouts. He tries to intervene, but Trigger tightens his grip around Spamton’s neck, causing him to back down. “Please,” Popper pleads, “let him go.”

"Didn't think you had it in you!" Trigger continues, ignoring Popper.

Spamton clasps Trigger's forearm as feet flail in panicked efforts to hoist himself. He strains to speak, but all he spews is spit.

As he gasps, Trigger presses harder like a vice. Sharp claws pierce themselves into Spamton's neck causing him to mewl in agony.

Despite his efforts to maintain his hold, Spamton feels his hands slipping. Legs swing like lead pendulums as he loses coordination. A strange, soft droning sound rattles his slipping consciousness and his mouth slackens.

Darkness.

Everything becomes dark.

Except for the singularity.

A star.

A subtle star.

Shrinking more and more until it's but a speck.

As Spamton relents and closes his eyes, it explodes with brilliance.

He gasps.

Lights, scents, sounds.

They zoom past filling him with consciousness once more.

Someone's holding him.

Someone's yelling.

The cacophony of chaos collapses his sense of time and space.

He bobs to his left then right.

Emil’s standing in front of him. He’s snarling at Trigger.

A sharp wail fills the air as Trigger strikes him, pressing him against his car.

Trigger's clenching his neck. He’s saying something.

Heels scrape against concrete as Emil’s thrashed.

bang

bang

BANG

Popper releases Spamton and clasps Trigger. Pushing him aside and thrusting himself between the two.

A guard approaches. Something’s exchanged between the four of them and he leaves with a cautious glance.

Spamton inhales sharply and sits up.

“Come on,” Popper prods, gripping Trigger who tries to pull away. “I said come on.”

“Fine…” Trigger snarls. “Fine!” He stares at Emil who turns away while clasping his throat. “Have fun with your maggot, faggot…” Trigger spits in Emil's eye, causing him to cower.

Popper turns to Spamton, “stay here. Don’t move,” he instructs as he forces Trigger towards the garage's exit.

Silence encroaches as the pair's footsteps recede into the distance. Spamton turns to Emil.

Emil leans limp against the car. Frayed fibers give way to streaks of cyan underneath. Several buttons are missing, as indicated by the loose placket. Vibrant fields of blue are sullied by crimson red that intermingle with spit. Thick lashes frame listless eyes in a faint pool of pink. And if there were tears, they were too afraid to fall much like Emil who braces against the hatch.

Spamton winces as he rises, gritting his teeth. Emil stiffens, turning away from Spamton as his breath becomes more labored.

Brisk steps make their presence known as they ascend with haste. “Where are your keys?” Popper asks Emil. He doesn’t respond. “I need your car keys, Emil.”

Emil reaches into his pocket. The clang of metal breaks through the tension as Popper grabs them.

“Where’s Trigger?” Spamton demands to know.

“Got him a taxi. Made sure I saw him off. Are you two ok? Should we stop by emergency?”

“I’m fine,” Spamton remarks, clearing his throat as Emil remains still.

"Emil?" Popper asks again. Emil responds with a downcast listless shake of his head.

Popper returns a skeptical stare. “We should at least stop by a drugstore.”

“I have supplies at home…”

They both turn to Emil whose demeanor remains unchanged.

“… Ok,” Popper sighs, tossing Spamton the keys. Spamton makes a grab, almost dropping them by surprise. “Take Emil home. Make sure he's ok.”

Spamton shrinks as shame envelopes him. “I - I don't know how to drive…”

Popper looks Spamton over in confusion. “I thought you were a postman.”

“Local,” Spamton explains. “I rode a bike…”

“Ok,” Popper responds with a nervous nod. "Both of you; get in the back.” They do as told while Popper takes the driver's seat and adjusts the controls. “Where do you live, Spamton?”

Spamton looks up in alarm. “I’m going with Emil.”

Emil turns to Spamton with his gaze downcast. “We have work in the morning," he whispers with a hoarse throat.

“I’m calling us out.”

Emil doesn't protest. He simply maintains his attention to the floor.

“Do you know where Emil lives?” Popper asks Spamton.

“Yea,” Spamton nods briskly. “Get on the main road and I'll direct you.”

Popper nods and turns on the car, backing out. He pulls into his lane, making way for the exit.

As they reach the parking kiosk, Popper turns to Emil. “I need your parking validation.”

Emil furrows his brow before absently patting his pockets. He stops. “It's on the dash,” he indicates with a nod so slight it's scarcely discernable. “I'll pay you back.”

“I got this,” Popper remarks, inserting the ticket and paying the total. The barrier arm lifts and they merge into traffic. Blending into the hustle and bustle of Cyber City with ease.

☎️

Trite jovial ads of the nightlife in Cyber City zip and zoom by as Spamton and Emil sit in the backseat of Emil's car.

Smiles.

A sea of smiles.

Addisons by nature are prone to smiling.

Elated?

Smile.

Jubilant?

Smile.

Morose?

Smile.

Despondent?

Smile.

Listless ruby eyes gaze without purpose amongst the sea of smiles. Some flash into existence with briliance while others take a more subdued approach to counter the cocophony.

Doesn’t matter the advertisement. Each Addison is alert and keen, sporting an affable yet confident air. Pristine and pruned of any faults or abnormalities.

Popper comes to a stop next to a busy street. Residents of various species and statures saunter by.

A slender female yellow Addison passes by with her friend, a pink Addison. Both chuckling and chirping about something or other when she turns, spotting Spamton.

Her bright vibrant grin and iridescent plumage dull as her face furls from fear. Her friend stops, takes note of him too, and stands aside, clasping her companion’s arm and abscond with haste.

Something about the yellow addison's reclusion gives Spamton unease. His heart is pounding. He grips his chest and leans back, closing his eyes.

“Everything ok?” Popper prods.

“Yea,” Spamton returns, clearing his throat, wincing as he does.

Beyond giving directions, they’ve not spoken to each other since departing from the bar. Breaking the silence felt wrong somehow, but he’s the only one with the faculties to guide them home. Regardless of his fragile state, he has to take the helm.

“Make a right,” Spamton instructs. Popper does as told. He clears his throat again, itching to say something about earlier. “What happened back there; in the garage...”

“Trigger said he was feeling sick so I saw him off to the bathroom before going to close his tab.” Popper huffs in agitation. “I should’ve stayed by the door…”

“Has he ever done this? Ever -” Spamton starts to turn to Emil then redirects, going quiet.

“No,” Popper responds with haste. “He doesn’t like getting tipsy let alone drunk.”

“No, I meant -” Spamton catches his breath. “Assaulting someone.”

Popper glances over his shoulder. “No,” he clarifies, turning his attention to the mirror. He observes them through the mirror as he readies the gas. “I still think you two should see a doctor.”

Spamton turns to Emil.

Emil doesn’t respond.

“We’ll do that in the morning,” Spamton responds on Emil’s behalf. “He’s got medical supplies in his bathroom. I’ll make sure he’s ok.” Fingers glide against his thigh as he starts to reach for Emil. He swallows, clasps his thigh, and returns his attention to the road. “Make - make a left.”

Popper does as told. “You should see a doctor too, Spamton. I couldn’t tell if you hit your head when Trigger dropped you.”

Spamton furrows his brow, pushing up his glasses. “Dropped me?”

“When Emil pushed Trigger he dropped you pretty high. Emil caught you, but...”

Spamton catches his breath, turning to Emil.

Bangs obscure every facet of Emil’s face as he lowers his head even more. He curls in on himself, turning away entirely and resting his head on the glass.

“No, I - I think I fell on my back and elbows…”

“I still advise it,” Popper warns as they come to a stop sign. Upon realizing no other cars have stopped he continues.

“Here,” Spamton announces. “Building on your right.”

Popper pulls up to the building. “You two go ahead and get out. I’ll park."

Spamton reaches for the door and can already feel a mild ache radiate through his shoulder. As he steps out he makes his way towards Emil’s side, only to see he’s already getting out. Spamton offers his hand for Emil to take but upon seeing Emil stiffen, he retracts. They stand in awkward silence as Spamton watches Popper pull Emil’s car into the parking garage.

A minute or so passes and Popper jogs back to the front. “Here,” he huffs, catching his breath, handing Spamton the keys. “I'll catch a taxi on a main road. Call me in about an hour, ok?"

“Ok,” Spamton nods, taking the keys.

Popper nods, expelling a sigh of relief as he rests his hands in his pockets, making his way to the main road. He gives them one last glance and nod before turning around, disappearing into the night.

It’s when Popper vanishes from view that reality comes crashing down and a great weight descends on Spamton. “Come on, Emil,” he murmurs, taking Emil’s hand. “Let’s go inside.”

☎️

The ascent up the stairs is as expected.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Yet expected.

Spamton fumbles with the keys, unsure of which is the corret one. He inserts one but it jams before passing the second tumbler, so he tries another. Then another which makes it about halfway before becoming stuck as well. After a few forceful tugs he a manages to pull it back out. Spamton pushes his glasses up and holds the key ring close to his eyes. He inspects each key with care, segregating keys he's tried when Emil’s hand cups his own.

Large gentle fingers guide Spamton’s own to the correct key.

Spamton blinks a few times. His heart's racing again. “Thanks,” he whispers, holding the keys close to his chest.

Emil attention remains downcast. He doesn’t respond beyond a nod so subtle it might be mistaken for him balancing himself.

Spamton observes Emil for a moment before proceeding to open the door, letting Emil in first, then closing and locking the door behind them.

“Here,” he remarks, attempting to hand Emil his keys. Emil trudges by with absent intent toward the couch then stops midway, staring into nothing.

“I’ll set them on the table; behind the couch,” Spamton remarks. He gives them a playful shake as he approaches the dining table and sets them down.

His hand remains atop the keys. He stares at it. Flecks of yellow and red still adorn his soft snowy down although the red is starting to dull. He turns to Emil.

Emil remains mute. There’s a pensive yet distant look in his eyes.

Spamton closes his eyes.

Away.

Away.

Run away from it all...

Every fiber of his being is taut.

Frantic.

Ready to burst.

Such a panicked little thing he is.

So weak.

So useless.

"Snow nor rain..." Spamton whispers. "Snow nor rain..." he says again with crisper annunciation. He taps the keys, letting his hands slide slack to his side. “I know you’re not ok, but -” he exhales briskly, rubbing the left side of his chest. “I’d like to know what you’re feeling." He looks up at Emil. "What you need.”

Silence.

Spamton bites his lip, giving his thigh a light tap. “You know I - I think a long warm shower would feel good."

Silence.

"Better yet -" he continues, "- bath. I saw you had some lavender... salt something or other. On the shelf. I could put on some tea while you soak a bit? Relax?”

Silence.

Spamton nods in resignation. “I’ll run some water and put some salt in for you.”

“You bathe first," Emil suggests, his voice creaking like a rusted fence. Barely audible even in the still. "I need to wash your clothes.”

“Emil -”

Emil’s face turns sour. “Please…” he begs, his voice breaking, causing him to grimace even more.

Spamton looks on with unease.

Emil looks like he’s crawled from a crypt. With his apartment's warmer, brighter glow, he stands in stark contrast. The tatters and tears on his shirt are far more visible now. His crest is more matted and disordered than a deadfall. Dried blood and spittle obscure once vibrant cyan plumage. There’s a bruise forming on his left eye which appears sunken and recessed as if desperate to hide. Yet within the sunken pits remain those vibrant violet-blue irises framed by thick lashes. A flicker of Emil’s warmth, faint though it is, struggles to remain.

Spamton wipes the side of his face and looks down as it becomes too much. “Ok,” he whispers, looking back up straining to smile. “When I'm done you take a bath and we’ll put on some tea, maybe watch a flick before bed? Whatever you want.”

He waits until Emil returns a curt nod then proceeds towards the bathroom. He takes off his clothes, grabs a towel, and peaks around the corner. “I’ll put the clothes atop the hamper, ok?” Emil gives a slightly more visible nod as he remains where Spamton last saw him, his gaze still downcast. Spamton gives a thumbs up, making his way to the bedroom and toward the hamper.

Emil's faint scent nestles itself within Spamton’s awareness as he treks deeper into the room. He takes in a long, deep breath. In doing so, his shoulders fall slack and he leans his head back.

His mind is a mess.

Every time Spamton attempts to focus on the comfort of Emil’s scent a garish thought slices through his concentration. Then another. Yet again his calm is cracking and sifting away from the rote rumination typical of his character.

Shower.

He needs to shower.

Maybe then he can collect his thoughts.

Talk to Emil about everything that’s transpired.

Maybe...

He shakes his head, tossing his clothes atop the hamper, and proceeds to exit when something catches his eye.

There’s a mirror hanging on the wall.

Strange he never noticed it before. Then again the first time he’d entered Emil’s room his mind was - elsewhere…

Spamton approaches it.

As he steps into the frame feathers stand from head to tail.

Before him is the visage of a haunt with crimson eyes and a striking red gash across its throat.

The room goes dark as he clamps his eyes shut. What feels like claws prick through sensitive flesh causing him to quake. Knees buckle like stacked porcelain cups barely maintaining balance. He swallows, whimpering and muttering nonsense under his breath. “It’s not...” he clatters, gripping the edge of his towel so hard his hand begins to numb. Spamton pants and spasms straining to steady himself.

Look.

Look up.

It's not real.

It's not real.

He gulps, thrusting his attention upward and gritting his teeth as he fights to face his fear.

It’s his reflection.

Only his reflection.

Deep, pained pants thrash through slivers of clenched teeth as he maintains his stance. He continues staring at the man before him until he can no longer endure.

Spamton spins around, walking with haste to the bathroom.

Chapter 22

Notes:

🎆 Happy 4th! 🎆

Life’s been busy, but I’ve not abandoned this fic. It’s just that production’s now slowed to once a month. Hopefully, that’ll change in the future.

For ya’ll’s patience, and because I was itching to draw this, here’s some NSFW of Spamton alone on a Friday night.

📙: https://frimplefram.blogspot.com/2024/06/preview-click-read-more-to-view-in-full.html

🐾: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/57121788/

As always, thanks for reading and commenting!

Spamton stares at his feet.

Faint drops of red trickle down porcelain plumage. They join into a stream, becoming lost atop the off-white bathtub before slithering down the drain.

He grabs a bottle holding it close to his eyes, straining to discern the words.

Plume Spume

Spamton squeezes a mild amount, giving his feathers a thorough scrub from top to bottom. Once lathered, he rinses, shaking off a few times and preening until the water runs clear.

He proceeds to grab another bottle but doesn't read it. He can tell from the scent it's conditioner. Spamton applies a more generous amount, coating every inch of his body. Once done, he waits, staring at the powder-pink tile before him.

Bathing in such a pristine bathroom would be a dream come true under normal circumstances. The scent of bath salts and lavender intermingle with the humid air. He closes his eyes and sighs as a veneer of calm pours over him. Yet the calamity... it’s still present. Lurking and pacing in the recesses of his mind.

Muddled memories give way to clarity with each drop of water. Fingers trace the sore radiating through Spamton’s neck.

Twice...

Twice...

The blood.

It's gone.

Washed down the drain.

Revealing fear, but not for himself.

Flickering thoughts berate him like rain.

Drench him.

Drown him.

Those violet-blue eyes consumed by pits of black.

That soften-spoken voice splintering into agony.

The thud of flesh against metal.

The collapsed, groveling state of a man trying to appease his friend.

Friend.

Friend.

Spamton winces as muscles in his neck tense from the agitation swelling within. It boils with such intensity he could mistake the steam consuming him to be forged from his own breath.

He rinses off the conditioner, shaking water residue, and then turns off the faucet. A low rumble fills the air as he slides the glass door, grabbing a towel hanging on the door's exterior handle. Spamton puts on his glasses from the sink's edge. They're foggy from the humidity, but clear upon turning on the vent. He scans the bathroom for a dryer until spotting one resting on an inset shelf and grabs it, drying himself off.

Once done, Spamton approaches the bathroom door and pauses. Petite digits grace warm down along his breast while swallowing. “Emil?” He calls out.

Silence.

Spamton wipes the side of his face and clasps the knob. Claws scratch the door as he loses his grip from the dew collected on the knob's surface. Soft squeaks skitter through the air as he wipes it down with the towel and tries again, opening the door. “Emil?” He calls out once more, his head poking into the hallway.

Silence.

Spamton walks into the bedroom.

Emil's not there.

His clothes are gone too.

Spamton enters the living room.

Emil's not there either.

Spamton stands in a mild stupor unsure of what to do.

Suddenly he realizes... He has nothing to wear. And it's this recollection that reminds him of something worse.

The paper Popper gave him. It was in his pant pocket.

“Shit…” Spamton moans, slicking back his crest. He growls in agitation, pacing in a small circle when he glances at the couch.

A pale-pink robe sits atop one of the cushions. Atop of it is his wallet, keys, and -

Spamton approaches the couch, picking up one of the pieces of paper. He bites his lip while wiping his eyes, running his hand down his face. Spamton sets the paper aside and returns to the bathroom, putting up the towel. Claws clack againt the hardwood floor as he returns to the living room, grabs the piece of paper, and puts on the robe. Once clothed, he stares at the paper.

Popper did say to call.

It would likely be a brief check-in to ensure they’re both ok. That’s all they'd have time for anyway considering it was a weekday. Yet…

Spamton picks at a loose thread along the rim of the robe, trudges to the phone, and dials the number.

Ring

Ring

“... Hello?”

“Popper?”

“Spamton?”

“Yea. Checking in. Calling like you told me to.”

“Thanks. How’s everything?”

Terrible.

“Ok,” Spamton lies. “We’re ok. Just got out of the shower. Emil went to wash my clothes.”

“... He’s not with you?”

Spamton stiffens at the unfamiliar tone of Popper’s query. “No. I tried to get him to stay but he insisted on washing my clothes. I - I didn’t want to make things worse. He’s -“ Spamton grips the receiver. “He’s not doing ok… I mean - we're ok; physically. Nothing bad's happened, medically speaking or - um..." he taps the receiver. “Emil's been catatonic since you left."

"Catatonic?"

"Yea," Spamton sighs. "He won’t look at me. Won’t talk. I don’t know what to do...”

“The best thing you can do is physically be there for tonight. Don’t fuss over anything. Don’t pressure him to talk. Knowing Emil he’s probably afraid of making things worse too.”

“Yea but -“ Spamton paces, running his hand through his crest. “It’s been hard. Really hard.”

“Considering what happened I don’t doubt it.”

“... I mean since the beginning.”

Spamton winces at the awareness of what he’s blurted out. He waits for Popper to say something. Anything. But all that returns to his ear is static.

“What do you mean?” Popper asks after what seems like an eternity.

“I know I don’t know anything about relationships. About - love, but… what we’ve been going through? I don’t think it’s normal.”

“... What have you been going through?”

“A lot, umm -“ Spamton licks his lips. “I don’t - it’s pretty personal...”

“You only need to say what’s necessary."

“Ok, umm… You know… You know he’s my boss, so... That’s - that’s caused some issues at work. Not - not anything major, but we have to keep it secretive.”

“Understandable."

“I started it. I -” Spamton begins panting. He expels a sharp breath and wipes his mouth. “I initiated it… We had a couple arguments early on. About - about if we should be together because we’re coworkers… Emil; he's...” Spamton licks his lips. “I shouldn't judge. I’m a mess too, but - he's sad, almost all the time. He’s been through a lot. A lot I can’t tell you about. A lot I don’t know if I can help him with or -“

Say it.

“... Or what?”

Say it.

Spamton sighs. "I don't think I can handle it."

Silence.

Spamton clasps his eyes shut as his shoulders furl inward.

“... Do you mean you can’t handle what’s going on or you don’t want to?”

Spamton furrows his brow. “What?”

“Can you not handle what's going on right now because you're overwhelmed or do you not want to be with Emil?"

Spamton’s chest tightens from Popper’s piercing questioning.

“I…”

Say it.

“I love him, Popper. I - I do, but - what if... What if this keeps happening? What if we're not...” Spamton trails off as the weight of his words suffocates him.

“Not meant to be together?”

Spamton swallows and squirms as the weight plummets to his core like a stone. “... Yea..”

“... I see…”

Silence lingers in the air like poison.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“... What do you think relationships are? What they're supposed to be, Spamton?”

Spamton shakes his head in turmoil. “I told you I don’t know…”

“You said you don’t know what they are. Doesn’t mean you don’t have an idea of what you think they are.”

“They’re…” Spamton waves his hand in the air before flopping it to his side. “They’re when you love someone..."

“And what do you think love is?”

“It’s…” Spamton laments and ponders. Feet trudge against the floor as he spins around and around, desperate for the answer when he turns to the piano. Then the kitchen. Then the couch. He places his hand against his chest, feeling the smooth silk beneath his fingers. “It’s… It’s when you’re there for someone. Even when you don’t want to be sometimes. Because… They’re trying. They’re trying to be there for you. Be what you need them to be.” He studies the drying rack, noting a shot glass amongst the dishes. “Be what they know they need to be. And because you see that, you remember that part of you that wants to too.”

“… Do you think that’s enough?”

“Why are you asking me?" Spamton snides, tilting his head to the side.

"Because I -"

"I don't know... I - I never know... I haven't succeeded at anything in my life to know anything about - anything. I’ve failed at everything I’ve ever tried. I -” Spamton swallows, wiping his eyes and mouth, clenching it shut.

“But you’re employed.”

“Yea... And I work in a closet... I’ve never landed a pitch or - or sale bonus, or -”

“You’re employed.”

Spamton sighs in exasperation. “Yea, I'm employed... What of it?” he returns with a mocking waggle of his head, gripping the side of his chest.

“And you befriended Emil because of that.”

“Yea, but -”

“And you’re together now.”

“... Yea.”

“And even though it’s hard right now despite it all, you're determined. Work, Trigger, Emil; you never stop trying."

Spamton releases his grip on the silken robe, letting his fingers go slack against his chest. “... Yea…”

"You ruminate and worry, Spamton. Nothing wrong with that. It's good to be cautious, but dissect too much and you'll have nothing left to work with."

"You're the one asking me questions..." Spamton scoffs.

"So I can help you. I only ask what's needed. Why inspect the heart if it's the mind that's burdened?"

Spamton huffs, pursing his lips. "So you're saying I'm - I'm overthinking things..."

"Maybe. I'm not you. But I think you're focused on the wrong things. Too focused. You need a balance with relationships.”

Spamton taps his claw on the receiver. "... Have you been in one?"

“In what?”

“A relationship.”

"... Yes. Several."

"Are you in one now?"

Silence.

"Yes."

Spamton’s eyelashes flutter. “Oh… I - you never talked about it.”

“I don’t talk about personal matters unless asked or necessary.”

Something about Popper’s stance makes Spamton squirm. “I guess that makes sense... How long have - have you been seeing someone?”

“Half a year give or take.”

“Oh…” Spamton licks his lips, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I ask, umm - have… Have you ever left someone or have they ever left you?”

“Yea,” Popper confirms. “Normally it was me who left.”

“Why?”

“In most instances, I realized we weren’t compatible. Sometimes I was the problem, other times it was my partner. In most relationships I’d say it’s a mix.”

“What happened? Generally speaking?”

“... We drifted apart. You date anyone long enough and some kind of conflict will occur. And depending on the situation, no amount of trying to understand one another or compromise worked. We couldn’t or wouldn’t be what that other person needed."

"So things went sour?"

"Not necessarily," Popper clarifies. "Sometimes the foundation's sour to begin with. But you ignore it because you like that person." There's a slight pause. "No amount of good in a person will ever make up for a bad foundation if neither of you acknowledge it."

Spamton swallows, turning his attention to the piano again. “How do you know if it’s bad? The foundation?”

“Depends. Sometimes core things don’t align. Kids, finances, things like that. Or there's a clash of personality; lifestyle. What makes your partner happy may upset you instead. Other times your partner's abusive.” There’s a slight pause. “I don’t think you need an example of that.”

“No…” Spamton agrees, rubbing the side of his neck. “... What about good things? What's a good foundation?"

“It’s like you said when I asked your thoughts about love.”

“You didn’t say it was enough,” Spamton points out.

“I asked your opinion about love. I never gave mine,” Popper reminds. “If the question's, 'will love make us happy forever,' then no. Love’s not a romcom where the only troubles are ditzy dates before the third act. Where there's a 'happy ever after'. The capacity to love is innate but to feel and express it is a choice. It takes work to maintain and every rose has its thorns. There will be bad days. Bad months even. Months where you wonder if it’s even worth it. But if you’re both tending to the garden, you’ll come out better for it.”

“Me n’ Emil… Do you think -”

“You’re ruminating.”

Spamton exhales through his nose, picking at his robe. “But I need -”

“I’ve told you what I think and I'm not dating Emil. Only you know if he's worth it or not.”

Spamton shakes his head, pressing his chin into his neck. “Ok… Thanks... Can... Can I call you later? This week?"

“Call me tomorrow,” Popper suggests. “Just to make sure you two are really ok.”

“Ok,” Spamton agrees. “Night.”

“Night.”

Spamton retains the phone to his ear until he hears the click and the disconnect tone.

He returns the handset to the switch hook, letting his hand slip to his side.

☎

Spamton stares at the clock in the kitchen. It’s been well over an hour since Emil left.

It takes a while to wash and dry clothes; about an hour. The laundromat's downstairs in the complex. He recalls seeing a sign in passing indicating such. Emil near. Emil's safe. Yet…

Spamton goes to inspect the key rack by the entrance. There’s no spare set.

The fear of someone breaking in tethers his urge to check on Emil, as paranoid as that sounds. That’s more a concern for his place…

In either case, he should stay put.

Don’t fuss.

Don’t ruminate...

He shuffles to the couch, plopping down and turning on the TV.

Another ten minutes or so passes when Spamton detects a door opening and closing somewhere in the complex. He stiffens, swiveling toward the door.

He can scarcely make out footsteps against the hall’s carpeting. They’re approaching the door.

Spamton swallows, returning his attention to the TV as the click of the tumbler alarms him.

Be cool.

Be cool.

The door opens and closes with a whisper. What sounds like shoes roll about the floor as they're pushed aside.

Spamton glances over his shoulder as Emil approaches the back of the couch.

“Hey,” Spamton greets breathlessly. Emil doesn’t respond while placing Spamton’s folded clothes on the table. “Thanks for washing my clothes, Emil.” Still no response. “Uh, got off the phone with Popper,” he explains, awaiting any acknowledgment. “Told him how we’re doing. Said, said I’d call him tomorrow.”

Emil only nods with his head bowed.

A dull ache throbs through Spamton at the sight of Emil. “Thanks for taking the paper out of my pocket. I forget that a lot." Silence. "This robe's nice. Real nice. It's like walking around in a silk blanket,” he laughs.

A restrained grimace flickers through Emil’s lips. “You’re welcome…” he murmurs, his voice coarse.

Spamton fights the nerves nipping at his core. “I’m - sure you'd like to slip in one too… How about you hit the shower and we can hit the hay? Whaddaya’ say?”

There's a slight furrow in Emil's downcast brow. “You wanted to watch TV.”

“No that was - I mean, we don’t have to. It was just a suggestion.” Spamton rubs the side of his chest. “But, you can take a bath and if you’re feeling up to it we can watch something. Ok?”

Emil returns an absent nod, trudging towards the bathroom.

“If you need anything I’ll be right here,” Spamton reassures.

No response.

The tension in his chest eases somewhat upon hearing clothes thrown into the hamper and the gentle patter of running water.

Spamton leans back on the couch. The static of infomercials slithers in and out of his consciousness. He watches for a moment before turning his attention to some magazines on the table.

The top one is about interior decor. It's a few months old. Spamton picks it up, flipping and staring at a life within the pages he’ll never know. As he ap[approaches the centerfold, he comes across a coupon nestled in the crevice. He flips through a few more pages, noting that some are missing. He fiddles with a corner of the page, returning to the magazine's center and ripping out the coupon.

Spamton inspects it with mild interest, turning it to and fro. As if second nature, he grabs a corner, aligning it to the coupon’s outer edge, and makes a mild crease. Then grabs the exposed flap making a harder crease before ripping it off. He stares at the paper. Ruby eyes hone in on its potential.

The sound of an infomercial catches his attention. Spamton looks on until becoming bored and his focus wavers to his right.

Atop the TV cabinet is a bamboo cage with an ornate bird inside. He squints, licking his lips, holding the paper close to his eyes. Delicate digits fold it again and again until there's nothing else to fold.

Spamton examines his creation with a mild smirk before setting it atop the table.

He grabs another magazine but hesitates, setting it aside. On second thought, he shouldn’t be tearing out pages without permission…

Spamton rises and wanders about the living room until recalling the table beside the couch. He approaches it, opening the drawer. Sure enough, there’s a notepad and pen inside. He takes both out, sits back down, and tears off a sheet.

Minutes tick by but Spamton doesn't know. He’s lost in the art of creation. Distracted from the disarray of tonight when the sound of the shower stopping jolts him. He swivels towards the bathroom. What sounds like a dryer clicks on for a few minutes and then stops. He leans forward as he hears what seems to be the brushing of teeth and rattling of pill bottles.

Spamton licks his lips, returning his attention to the creation at hand. As the door opens, he fumbles, dropping it. He curses under his breath, leaning down to pick it up.

Cool.

Be cool.

He exhales, looking up at Emil. To his surprise, Emil's wearing a long-sleeved set of pajamas. They’re grey in hue. Not to his surprise is Emil’s vacant downcast gaze.

Emil lurches towards the couch, sitting down as if intent on not disturbing anything.

“Hey again,” Spamton smiles, setting the paper in his lap. “Bet the shower felt good. You were in there a while - not, not that it’s wrong, I’m - I’ll shut up now,” he titters, fidgeting with the paper. He gulps, examining Emil through his periphery.

Gone is the blood and spit. Gone too is Emil's disheveled appearance. But he's still in disarray...

Spamton covertly examines the bruise along Emil's eye and cut along his lip. Both of which are far more visible with the muck washed away.

“Still wanna’ watch something?” Spamton pries softly. “I’m up for anything.”

“This is fine,” Emil whispers.

Spamton glances at the TV and then back to Emil. “These are infomercials, Emil.”

Emil winces, lowering his gaze. “Sorry…”

“It's ok,” Spamton reassures turning to Emil, unaware that the paper's fallen again. “I was just letting you know. In case you didn’t want to watch them. Most of them are CD collections, so I don't mind. It's like free music. Which - there's... There's radio for that and you get the full song…”

As Spamton rambles, Emil picks the object off the ground. Emil gives it a cursory glance, handing it back to him.

“Thanks,” Spamton acknowledges with a stilted smile and gulp.

Emil strains to inspect the table. Lips part a hair, then close. Eyelashes flutter, likely from the pain of the budding bruise. He picks up one of Spamton’s crafts with care and inspects it. It’s an origami bird.

Spamton exhales slowly, biting the side of his cheek. “Do any origami?”

Emil's expression becomes taut as though confused. He swallows, flinching in the process. “No," he murmurs.

“Wanna' try? I mean, if I can do it, anyone can. Especially since they're not even that good.”

Emil's brow furrows. “Don’t say that...” He turns a touch towards Spamton, his head still downcast, but his eyes lift a fraction. Spamton catches a glance of them before they vanish beneath thick cyan lashes. "These are really good.”

Spamton blinks a few times, rubbing the side of his face. “Thanks. I do them all the time at work. Normally around lunch if I’m not in a crunch.”

Emil’s expression shifts. “I’ve never seen them.”

“Oh, that’s cause I crumple n’ toss them when I hear someone coming,” Spamton waves off.

“Why?”

“Don’t want anyone thinking I’m lazy. I have enough problems.”

“Don’t do that…” Emil commands with a clearer tone. “And you're not lazy.”

"It's just arts n' crafts," Spamton shirks. "Kid stuff. At least the ones I make.”

"No. They're not," Emil counters with audible defiance. Violet-blue eyes return Spamton a piercing stare before slipping behind thick lashes once again. “They’re beautiful.”

A jolt of heat radiates through Spamton. "Well if, uh - I'll..." He pushes up his glasses, clearing his throat. "W-want me to show you how to make some?"

Emil gives a curt nod.

“Ok,” Spamton rubs his hands while sitting up. “Let me think… Oh - simple ones… We can do… A duck, or dog… Heart, bu-”

“Heart,” Emil cuts in.

Spamton catches his breath. “Ok. Let me prepare some paper.” He rips off two notebook sheets, folding each corner of the respective sheet towards the edge. Soft hisses fill the air as he rips off the excess, discarding them into a pile. “Hearts only have seven or eight steps depending on how you go about it. Super simple. Follow me, ok? If you need me to stop, say so.”

Emil nods.

As Spamton explains and performs the steps he observes Emil from his periphery.

With each movement Emil makes, stiff, unsure actions give way to fluidity. So too does Emil's demeanor. Shoulders slacken and eyes soften as he becomes absorbed with the task at hand.

“We’re almost done,” Spamton reassures. “Step seven’s taking the corners of each side and folding them in. Except for the bottom one,” he points to his heart indicating where. “Leave that one flat.”

Emil, though still not making prolonged eye contact, gives a dutiful nod.

“About this much,” Spamton gestures, folding the four corners. “And there you have it! A heart.”

A faint smile leaps past Emil’s face before vanishing. He inspects his results, tilting his head to the side. “You said there’s sometimes an eighth step.”

“Yea.”

“What is it?”

Spamton raises his brow. “Well, the eighth step's writing something on it. I never do because -” he pauses, tapping the heart on his thigh with a sheepish smile. “I can show you something else. How about a duck?”

Emil ignores Spamton's query and reaches over to Spamton’s side, taking the pen and paper. He furls in on himself while writing something on the heart he'd made. Once done, he offers it to Spamton.

Spamton rubs his fingers together. He takes the heart and adjusts his glasses.

Thank you.

Spamton turns to Emil.

Violet blue eyes meet him in return as does the quiver of his bottom lip as if straining to smile. Emil swallows with a grimace, casting his gaze aside.

Spamton rocks his jaw back and forth and rubs his eyes. He extends his hand towards Emil, who gives him the notepad and pen. He leans forward, writing something in return on his heart, handing it to Emil.

Emil reads it. The quiver in his lip becomes more prominent as he inhales, licking his lips and leaning back. “I shouldn’t have gone up there.”

“Emil…”

“I got you hurt. I lied to you…”

“I’m the one who got out of the car. N’ the other stuff, I - would’ve done the same. Put on the spot. I -”

“Trigger and I fooled around before I met you.”

Spamton leans back.

“After my first ex... I was sent to some corporate…” Emil shakes his head. “We were on the same project. We talked. I was drunk; desperate. And he was kind. Really kind,” his voice breaks. “We stopped after three months. I called it off, but... He wanted to be friends and -” Emil swallows. “I did too. I thought we could be. I wanted us to be...” he purses his lips, nocking his tongue against his lower canine.

“I kinda’ figured there was something there…” Spamton bites his lower lip, hanging his head to the side as he looks at Emil’s heart.

“I don't like him like that," Email expounds with a quiver in his voice. “I haven't since I called it off.”

“Emil, it's -”

“I want to be honest,” he continues with a fevered pace. “I always want to be honest.”

“It's ok,” Spamton reassures. “It's ok.”

Emil shakes his head and sniffs, wiping his nose. “I don't have many friends. I don't know if I even have friends, I - I’ve been so alone for so long... It was nice to believe someone liked me. That someone would want to be around me. Found me…” Emil whimpers with a forlorn listless stare. “... Worthwhile…”

Spamton opens his mouth and then stalls. He returns his attention to the heart, caressing it. "I do. Popper does too. That's why he gave us both his number. So we could hang out with him and his friends. Without Trigger."

Emil only returns a defeated frown.

“N' all that other stuff? It's in the past, Emil. That’s the good thing about the past. You don’t have to look back if you don’t want to. But if you do, you have the present to see how far you’ve come.”

Emil bows his head. “I haven’t…”

“You have. But you can’t see that if you keep looking at the floor, silly.”

Emil turns to Spamton.

“We're here, dealing with a bad day, some bad baggage, but we're dealing with it. You're doing more than you think. And on the days you can’t see that, I’ll be there to guide you,” Spamton consoles, cupping Emil’s hand.

“Thank you…” Emil’s voice breaks as he nods vigorously.

“Hey, I’m your boyfriend, remember? It's what you do when you love someone,” Spamton beams, playfully rustling Emil's thigh. “Speaking of moving on, I’ll show you how to make a fox. If you want.”

A flicker of mirth lingers in Emil’s soft smile. “I’d like that.”

☎️

“And that’s how you make a cicada,” Spamton remarks, showcasing the finished result.

“You’re really good at this,” Emil adulates while looking at his own result. “Mine looks like it’s been hit by a bus.”

“Come on,” Spamton smirks. “It looks fine. And if he's that beat up he can go to the hospital. I'll even make a taxi for him.” His smile droops. “Speaking of which, what time do you want to go tomorrow?”

“Go where?” Emil asks while adjusting the wing on his cicada.

“The doctor’s.”

Emil stares at Spamton and swallows. “I’ll do that during lunch.”

“... Lunch?” Spamton squints.

“Yea. At work, I'll go then.”

“Emil, We’re not going to work, remember? We’re calling out.”

“No, we -” Emil pauses. Violet blue eyes dart back and forth as his jaw becomes taut. “... Shit…”

Spamton leans forward with haste. “What? Are you ok? Does something hurt?”

Emil purses his lips and leans forward, resting his forehead atop crossed hands upon his knees. “We need to go to work.”

“No, we need to go to the doctor,” Spamton redirects with a somewhat jovial tone before shifting. “... What’s going on?”

“... I meant to tell you after the bar…”

A chill runs down Spamton’s spine. “Tell… Tell me what?”

Emil exhales slowly, fixating upon the ground. “... I’m not your team lead anymore…”

Spamton fidgets with his origami. “What do you mean? Are they promoting you? If so, that’s great.”

“No…” Emil explains, pressing his index fingers together and resting his lips against them with his chin anchored by his thumbs. “Spruce is assigning someone else to do it.”

A sharp smirk flashes across Spamton’s face before it falls slack. “Why?” he asks with a flat tone. “Did -” he gulps, pressing his glasses up. “Is it…” He gestures between them.

Emil shakes his head.

“Then what is it?”

Emil closes his eyes.

“... Please…”

“Two accounts you handled dropped their contracts…”

Spamton tenses as if lanced. He leans back against the couch.

“I told Spruce that wasn’t your fault. That your current pitch is good. Really good. To not let you go.”

Let you go.

“He…” Spamton swallows, but his mouth is barren. “He wants to fire me?”

Emil lowers his head. “Yea…”

Spamton closes his eyes. All he can hear is his heart. All he can feel is his heart. Ramming against his chest like a wild animal.

His heart...

His heart.

Spamton opens his eyes, peering into his lap.

It’s still there.

He cups it in his hands and takes a long breath.

Ruby eyes burst open, burning with brilliance as he sits up.

“You’re right. I should go to work tomorrow.”

“Spamton…”

“To prove him wrong.”

Emil spins toward Spamton, his mouth agape.

“I haven’t been fired.” Spamton reminds Emil, turning in his direction. “And I won't be fired. And tomorrow, they’ll see why. All of them.”

Emil smiles breathlessly. “Yea. They will.”

Spamton nods with a grin. “Come on. Let’s go to bed. I’ve got work in the morning.”

Chapter 23

Hushed sounds of tires upon the pavement and jovial proclamations skitter past Emil’s ear.

Hours have passed since Spamton and he went to bed. Yet much like the nightlife, he remains awake.

Dim light seeps through the vertical slits of his blinds, casting faint patterns that barely guide his wandering gaze. He stares at the ceiling fan, mesmerized by the rhythmic whirl of its blades. Each vibration sends a subtle glint shimmering along the length of the metallic pull-string, like a distant star flickering in the night sky.

The tension within his chest has been present since the altercation at the bar. It remains coiled like a vice upon his heart.

Dread of the inevitable overwhelms Emil like the advertisements engulfing Cyber City's skyline. No amount of talks or reassurances put him at ease. He is, despite his attempts, drawing...

Fabric rustles as he executes a swift kick, moving the blanket aside. He squirms like a worm atop the mattress, desperate to settle when sudden pain grips him. It rattles through his temple like the echoing clang of a gong.

Shit... The last thing he needs is a migraine... But he’s no stranger to them, especially at night. If it is one, he’ll endure as he has many times before.

Emil remains still. Once the pain becomes ebbs, he turns to Spamton.

Spamton lays nestled against his pillow in a fetal position, unaware of the turmoil beside him. A light buttercup tee adorns his form. It rises and falls with each calm breath he makes. His lashes, as white as freshly fallen snow, shiver like blades of grass in a soft breeze as he twitches in his slumber.

Emil turns with care and inspects the clock.

It’s almost five.

He lays back down with caution to not disturb Spamton nor cause himself more pain.

click

click

clack

Goes the tip of the pull-string.

Emil slowly succumbs to the trance once more when he senses Spamton stirring. He leans up on his elbows as Spamton slumps forward, rubbing his eyes groggily. “Hey,” Emil remarks.

“Hey,” Spamton returns in kind with a yawn.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Spamton reassures, gesturing to Emil for his glasses, which Emil provides. “I wake up around this time, remember?”

“Oh yea,” Emil recalls. “Wait - you don’t need an alarm?”

Spamton shakes his head, rubbing his throat and wincing. “It’s instinctive at this point.”

Emil furrows his brow as Spamton retains a pained expression. “Throat bothering you?”

Spamton ahead as though confused before feigning a smile. “A little… I should leave work early today; get it checked out.” He glances over to Emil. “Speaking of which -”

“Don’t worry, I’ll go.” Emil's smile flickers briefly, a pang shooting through his lower lip. Despite trying to obscure it, Spamton observes it with apprehension in the dim room. “Promise,” Emil adds.

“Ok,” Spamton accepts as he slides out of bed. He stretches, but stops short with a scowl, rubbing his shoulder.

Emil licks and bites his bottom lip. “How bad is it?”

Spamton turns to Emil, wincing as he does. “What?”

“Your shoulder.”

Spamton rocks his jaw once or twice in contemplation. “Not so bad.”

Emil frowns.

“I’m fine,” Spamton reassures. “On second thought, maybe I should go around lunch...”

Dissatisfied, Emil turns with haste to get out of bed. He pauses, leaning down and clenching his teeth. The pitter-patter of feet lets him know Spamton’s run to his side.

“You ok?” Spamton asks.

“Yea,” Emil reassures. “I -” he exhales, attempting to rest his forehead against his hand, only for a searing pain to rush through it like lightning. “I think it’s a headache.” He looks at Spamton who dons a dower look.

“You’ve been taking your meds, right?”

Something about that question sends a surge of heat through Emil… He returns a curt nod.

“Good,” Spamton sighs. “Not trying to pry. I just want to make sure ok,” he adds as if sensing Emil's unease.

Emil detects what sounds like Spamton rummaging with his shirt.

“I know I just said I was going to see my doctor after work, likely lunch, but - maybe I should stay here. Wait until your doctor opens. I could go with you then head into work and leave later.”

“You should go to work, Spamton, then go to your doctor during lunch. I don’t want you getting fired.”

Spamton smirks, shaking his head. “You think Spruce'll fire me for a sick day? Or - showing up later?”

Emil purses his lips, resting his hand on his clavicle.

“He’ll understand, Emil. I could call -”

“No,” Emil presses. “No,” he repeats more softly. “If you get fired because of me -”

“He’s not going to fire me for taking a sick day. I never take them. Besides, I’m going during lunch.”

“Which you shouldn’t have to do, but because of me -”

“Trigger did this; not you,” Spamton cuts in with a stern tone.

“Spruce won’t see it that way,” Emil argues, wincing in pain.

“He will if I call before going in and tell him -”

“Spamton, trust me, ok? Please? Don’t - don’t bring it up with him…” Emil begs.

Spamton purses his lips in silent compliance, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

“Come on,” Emil urges, straining to rise. “I’ll make us some tea.”

As Spamton makes his way to the living room, Emil veers off to his right. The flick of the switch floods the bathroom with a harsh light, causing Emil to grimace.

Hinges moan as the medicine cabinet door’s swung open. Emil takes out a medicine bottle and closes the cabinet.

As the lock clicks, he catches a glimpse of himself. Pills rattle against the plastic as the bottle slips from his grasp, landing with a muted thud on the rug below.

Though obscured in part by soft down, the bruise around his eye is all too evident.

Emil bites the inside of his mouth and scowls. The sound of something in the distance makes him flinch. He curls in on himself and clamps his eyes. After a tense moment, he forces them open but dares not to look into the mirror. He snatches the bottle off the ground, heading into the living room at a brisk pace.

☎️

As Emil enters the living room, the site of Spamton putting on his shirt causes him to pause.

Once tranquil eyes of violet-blue are now engulfed in pools of black as Emil looks on, utterly transfixed.

How Spamton flexes with each movement. The contour of his body as he twists and contorts. The swift thrust of hips as he balances himself. The manner in which his marbled form is obscured by fabric black as night.

Emil exhales sharply, swaying back and forth as he composes himself.

A white nose pokes through the shirt’s hole like a needle alongside a tuft of plumage before his head follows suit. Spamton squints as he leans forward scanning the table.

Emil walks towards the table, grabs Spamton’s glasses, and sets them in his diminutive palm.

"Thanks," Spamton chirps, rubbing his eyes before sliding on his spectacles. As clarity returns his smile melts away. Ruby eyes intensified by crimson lenses fixate on Emil’s visage.

Emil nocks his tongue atop his lower canine. “Here’s some pain meds if you need it,” he remarks, planting the bottle in Spamton's hand then making way for the kitchen.

The faucet creaks to life as Emil turns it. Warm water pours into two cups with a soft trickle. Once level, he turns it off. He rummages through a box atop the microwave until finding a smaller box. He takes out two tea bags, inserts one into each cup and sets them in the microwave, then starts the time.

Emil stares at the mugs as they spiral round and round. His focus intensifies upon hearing Spamton set the bottle down, treading softly towards the kitchen.

“Maybe I should stop by after work.”

“I'm ok, Spamton,” Emil remarks with a hint of strain, still staring into the microwave. “I have some things I need to handle anyway.”

“Outside?” Spamton pries with a taut inflection.

Emil licks his lips. “No. Here. Besides, I think it would be good for me to unwind. Reset you know?” he looks in Spamton’s general. “Catch up on some rest.”

“Didn’t sleep well?”

Emil’s gaze glosses over and the cups become blurry. “Not really.”

“Ok, well -” Emil hones in on Spamton shuffling about. “Would it be ok if I call later tonight? You know, if you're not asleep. Just to make sure you’re ok. Or - actually; you call me. Call me at lunch just so I know you're ok and we can talk later tonight.”

“Yea.” Emil looks up with a smile. “Call's fine."

The microwave beeps, prompting Emil to head towards a a pair of mits hanging on the wall. However, before he can reach it, Spamton leaps up and snatches one, swiftly tossing it to him. “Thanks. Sorry, it’s microwave tea. But it’s faster and I know you're an early bird.”

“It’s ok. It's not like I'll be late,” Spamton jests. “I’m sure it tastes delicious,” he compliments, taking in the aroma.

Emil sets both mugs atop a small tray and tests the handles with his fingers. Satisfied they're not too hot, he takes out the tea bags and walks toward the trash, pressing a lever then tosses them in.

“Wanna’ sit on the couch?” Emil gestures with a nod of his head.

“Yea,” Spamton says cheerily.

Emil picks up the tray and makes way towards the couch with Spamton following suit.

“Oh,” Spamton remarks, inspecting the table. “Guess we should’ve cleared it off.”

Emil notes the origami they made last night taking up all of the table’s space. He sits the tray on a side table and proceeds to pick up some of the crafts. He takes a step on way, then another before pausing, unsure of what to do with them.

“Here," Spamton extends his hand. “I’ll toss them.”

Emil swirls around. “Why?”

“We made a lot, Emil. Should toss them so they don’t become clutter.”

Emil purses his lips and stands his ground, holding them close to his chest.

Aware of Emil’s trepidation, Spamton slicks back his crest, returning an awkward look. “How about we keep a few and toss the rest?”

Emil grumbles disapprovingly, shaking his head.

“But there’s not enough room.”

“I'll take them into work tomorrow. Put them on my desk.”

“And what? Turn it into a maus’ nest?” Spamton chuckles.

“It’ll be a pretty one,” Emil jests in return.

“And a fire hazard,” Spamton laughs.

“A beautiful fire hazard,” Emil returns in kind.

Spamton beams from Emil’s playful retort but soon sighs, returning a knowing, sincere look to Emil. “I know you want to keep them all, but you really shouldn’t. I mean - I never keep the ones I make.”

Emil’s smile goes slack. He swallows, looking off to the side. “You made them though. We made them.”

“And we’ll make more,” Spamton suggests with a soft tone. “Again and again and again. As many as you want until we’re dead. But you only need a few to remember the fun we had. Besides -” Spamton taps his foot on the ground causing Emil to look up. “You got me,” he reminds with a sheepish smirk and extended arms.

Emil’s shoulders droop as he returns a submissive nod. “You’re right.” He goes to his closet, fetches a small bag, and puts the origami in. Emil scans the table as he sighs, setting more inside the bag while leaving the hearts they made. He ties the bag taut and hands it to Spamton. “Toss it for me when you leave, ok? Don’t want to go back on my word.”

A strange look flickers in Spamton’s eyes. “Ok.” He accepts the bag, setting it atop the couch as he sits.

Emil hands Spamton his tea from the side table while grabbing his own, and sits alongside him while Spamton turns on the TV. He leans back, wincing in the process.

“Is the TV bothering you?”

“What?” Emil asks, wincing again and turning to Spamton.

“The TV,” Spamton gestures with concern. “Is it bothering you? Sound, lights...”

“A little, I think.”

Spamton immediately reaches for the remote.

“I'm ok,” Emil reassures.

Spamton inspects Emil with worry while fidgeting with his mug.

“What time does your doctor open?”

Emil licks his lips. “Around eight; nine maybe.” As Spamton opens his mouth, he continues. “That’s only three hours from now, Spamton. I’ll be ok. And I took my medicine,” Emil reminds, returning a playful raise of the brow. “If anything it's likely a headache on account of -” he slams to a halt and swallows, taking a sip of tea.

Spamton follows suit with his cup. He sighs, licking his lips in a slow methodical manner. Tiny digits skitter atop porcelain like spider legs.

“I’ll call around lunch, ok? Let you know how things went.”

“Ok,” Spamton accepts, his demeanor relaxing a little.

Emil, reassured, takes another sip, staring absently at the TV. “In the meantime, I’ll call Popper. See if there's any places to his fancy to hang out at.”

“Oh,” Spamton sits up. “Yea. That’d be swell. We do need a new spot.”

“Yea,” Emil nods. “Honestly, I was getting a bit tired of that bar. But,” he shrugs “Guess I never thought there were other places we could go; you know?”

“Kinda’,” Spamton clarifies. “I'd see the occasional movie but never thought of going out for fun.” Spamton looks at his cup, his petite thumb gracing the handle. “Until I met you that is.”

“Ditto,” Emil returns with a smirk.

Spamton smiles, throwing back his head and consuming the rest of his tea, much to Emil’s surprise.

He sets the mug down and stands. Emil, despite his cup still being full, sets it on a coaster on the table and stands as well.

Spamton sits on a stool beside the door, puts on his shoes, and then stands, adjusting his shirt’s hem and tucking it in. He looks at the door and then back to Emil. “Guess I should head out.”

“Yea,” Emil swallows staring at Spamton’s neck. It’s faint, but he can make out a mild bruise amongst the snowy down; some of which is tattered. “You said you were going to the doctor’s around lunch right?”

“Yea,” Spamton nods briskly. “Gonna’ take the bus.” Ruby eyes hone in on Emil for a moment, shift, then retain themselves, feeble though it is. “I wonder who Spruce got to replace you.”

“Dunno’,” Emil sighs. “But you’ll be fine. If anything the new guy might cut you some slack. Same with Spruce. Let you get used to the change.”

“Think so?”

Emil bites his lip, cocking his head to the side. “Yea. I hope so at least.”

Spamton’s head drops a hair as he pinches his shirt. “Well, when you call around lunch, I’ll tell you how it went. And be sure to tell me -”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Emil chuckles while approaching Spamton. He rests his hand on his shoulder, giving him a friendly jostle before leaning down, kissing Spamton on the lips.

Spamton's sharp inhale sends a wave of warmth through Emil. It courses through his being. Every pulse rejuvenates him awakening a tender, irresistible feeling within. “Have a good day at work," Emil says breathlessly as they part.

“You too,” Spamton returns with a red flush. He shakes his head and wipes his forehead. “Well -” he titters, “you know what I mean.”

“Yea,” Emil chuckles.

“Ok,” Spamton bows, opening the door and backing out into the hall. “Call me at lunch,” he reminds with a hint of worry. “Love -” he pauses.

Emil returns a playful cock of his head, gesturing with a subtle bow for Spamton to proceed.

“Love you,” Spamtpon mutters, fidgeting with his shirt.

“Ditto,” Emil grins.

Spamton blushes deeply, his smile stretching from ear to ear. He pushes up his glasses and steps back, saluting as he proceeds down the hall.

Emil watches Spamton saunter to the exit with a mild swagger, open the door, then close it behind him.

A minute passes yet Emil remains transfixed in the hall. A strange awareness overcomes him. A hesitance. Emil sighs, slicking back his bangs and steps inside, closing the door behind him.

☎️

Feet aimlessly trudge against the floor. Emil rubs his jaw, resting his index finger against his lips as he surveys the space while his spare hand cups his elbow.

He turns to the TV. The morning news is still on and it’s half past five.

Relax… You need to relax…

As though driven by instinct, he makes way for the kitchen. Claws clack against the metal drying rack. He picks up something, holding it to his line of sight.

A shot glass.

A broad thumb rubs against the smooth surface. The ink has long since worn away. He carries the glass to his alcohol cabinet and opens it.

Various bottles taunt him. He looks down, closing his eyes. Yet the whispers of subtle spirits beckon him amongst the aroma of aged wood. He bites his lip and swallows, furrowing his brow as he takes out a bottle.

It’s unopened junmai. Adorning the label is an ink-wash illustration of cherry wood branches and flowers. Subdued strokes of pink accent stark strokes of black upon the off-white paper alongside striking shodo. Atop the metallic cap is the print of a crane with its wings spread wide…

Emil hones in the crane, glancing over to the couch, then back to the bottle. He scowls returning the bottle to the dark cupboard and setting the shot glass atop the kitchen counter.

Emil slicks back his bangs and almost sits when he notices Spamton forgot to take the bag with him. He picks it up and meddles with the knot then stops, looking down at his left.

It’s Spamton’s origami heart.

Only his origami heart.

Emil picks it up and reads it.

Ditto.

A soft sigh slips from trembling lips. He goes to the trashcan. Hinges creek with a gentle press of the pedal and he places the bag inside. A muted puff fills the air as it comes to a close upon withdrawing his foot.

Returning to the couch, he settles in, the weight of his thoughts sinking into the cushions beneath him.

With tender intent, he picks up the heart once more, caressing the surface. To his surprise, he can feel the divots where Spamton had written.

A solemn smile spreads itself upon Emil’s facade. Leaning forward, he reaches for the notepad, delicately tearing off a sheet.

Chapter 24

Notes:

Please see my pinned comment within this chapter.

Light sputters in and out of existence as does the visage of the familiar and forsaken filing room.

Spamton stands slack while rubbing his face as if attempting to wipe away fatigue. A mild pain radiates through his throat and neck as his thumb graces it.

The bulb’s ceaseless flickering makes Spamton scowl. He turns it off again, trekking to his desk without missing a beat. The building could plunge into darkness and he'd still easily traverse it.

An air of foreboding melancholy sticks to him like the flecks of dust that reign in this dark realm.

Emil won’t be coming in.

He won’t be stopping by.

It’s a reality Spamton knows he can’t change and likely shouldn't. It could cause trouble for them both.

Although he doesn’t want this, Maybe, just maybe, this is a good thing.

This new arrangement will allow them to be more private about their relationship. Avoid temptations lingering in the dark, overlooked recesses of this room. It would be a lie to say he hadn't thought of locking the door once Emil crossed the barrier.

He has to make the best of it.

He has no choice.

Springs creak and moan as he plops atop the aged, dilapidated office chair. He leans forward, turning on the computer.

The station beeps. Drivers and mechanisms come to life from a slow hum to a steady whirr. The black monitor gives way to light as lines of code spawn executing various functions. It goes black once more before landing on the operating system screen. A triumphant tune rings and then the screen transitions to the desktop.

The desktop's light illuminates the junk on Spamton’s desk. He frowns, furling his nose, and proceeds to stand, pulling a trashcan from under his desk.

Crusted styrofoam cups and licked wrappers crinkle atop one another as he tidies. Petite hands move about with scrupulous intent and haste. Not a single piece of garbage goes unchecked despite his exhaustion.

As Spamton begins to toss a candy wrapper, he pauses.

It’s from the chocolate Emil gave him when they first met.

A faint smile shimmers across Spamton's weary face as he sighs, tilting his head to the side and tossing it in the bin.

Once done he sets the can by the door as a reminder to take it to the main trashcan upstairs after finishing his shift.

Spamton rubs his face, trudges back to his desk, plops back down, and opens his email.

Light glimmers across his large lenses as he scans the email with absent regard while scrolling. He leans back, causing the chair's spine to creak until he notices something and leans forward again. He squints, pushing up his glasses as he reads the email's subject line.

Do you dream of heaven?

He reads another.

Do you have the key?

Ruby eyes inspect the senders' addresses.

They're blank.

Spamton grumbles and snatches a sticky note. He writes with haste and tapes it on his monitor. Lips purse as he highlights the anonymous messages, deleting them in mass.

His attention pivots toward the remaining emails. Keen eyes examine them with precision to see if any need immediate attention.

None.

A brisk mouse click breaks through the computer's steady hums as Spamton opens the last email he sent.

A grimace splinters across his face as he strains to swallow, wincing in agitation.

Perhaps it’s doubt, or maybe he’s seeing everything through a new lens. Whatever the reason, the conviction Spamton held concerning his pitch feels as worthless as the junk room he resides in.

Spamton groans, wiping his mouth and leaning back.

It’s still early. Most people don't start showing up until 7am, which was in an hour. He could do another pass. Wouldn’t hurt. Then again, he’s yet to get feedback on this current iteration. Doing another pass and sending it now could reveal him as incompetent and weak.

Claws clack against the table at a rapid pace.

Coffee.

He needs coffee.

Spamton briskly stands, making way for the door. Hinges creak as he opens it and ascends the worn recessed stairs with a rapid gait.

☎️

The musty odor of aged files and books fade as Spamton progresses further from his office. The aroma of printer ink and worn carpet fills the air of the isolated halls.

He follows the path to the kitchen, guided more by memory than conscious thought. As he turns to enter, he freezes.

“Oh,” a voice exclaims.

Before him is a yellow female addison leaning back in surprise.

Spamton licks his lips, casting his gaze aside. “Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you…”

“No it’s fine,” the female chuckles with a laugh as soft as a breeze. “It's early. Haven't had my morning coffee yet," she explains. "Didn't mean to freak you out. With the way I jumped you thought I would've seen a ghost!"

Spamton strains to smile but it falls flat.

Perhaps sensing this, the female apologizes. "I'm sorry. "I didn't -"

"It's fine," Spamton nods, placing a hand behind his back and the other against his mouth.

The female’s stare pushes Spamton’s gaze aside like a magnet.

"Wait... You’re the guy who works in the basement.”

“Yea,” Spamton confirms with a taut brow, pushing his glasses up.

“Oh!” She exclaims, “you’re my new subordinate! Sampson - Sam…” she snaps her fingers.

“Spamton.”

“Yes!” she claps with glee, making her way towards him. “Name’s Rider,” she greets, extending her hand.

Spamton braces himself as he looks up and feigns a smile while shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for being rude.”

“Nah,” Rider waves off. “Like I said, it’s really early; I get it. Are you always here this early?

“Yea.”

"Cool! I’m usually not here during this time, but it’s my first day as a team lead so, I want to land the mark, you know? Be prepared before the day starts.”

Spamton stiffens. “Team lead?”

“Yea,” Rider beams. “Someone got fired so I’m filling in.”

Spamton’s small hand presses against his chest. Claws prick through fabric and flesh as he strains to speak. “Who…” he whispers.

“What?”

“Who are you replacing?” Spamton clarifies.

“Some orange addison. I forget his name,” Rider responds looking towards the ceiling in recollection.

Spamton gulps and sharply inhales.

“... Are you ok?”

“Yea, I’m -” Spamton shakes his head, clearing his throat. “Sorry. I’m not used to - never mind…” he smiles, wiping his eyes. “You’re right it’s early. I - I need coffee too.”

“Here!” Rider extends her hand, offering her cup. “I mean, if you like it bitter. I prefer my coffee bitter. Knocks me into gear, you know?"

Spamton blinks in surprise.

"Oh, this - I just got it," she chuckles. "Paper cup; not mine, she clarifies as if he can’t discern that.

Spamton accepts the coffee.

He should be happy another addison is talking to him unprovoked.

Happy that she seems engaged.

But…

“Well,” Rider clears her throat heading towards the exit, “it was nice talking to you, Simon.”

“Spamton.”

“Shoot!” she taps her head, leaning it back. “‘Spamton’. I really need that morning coffee.” She runs back to the machine, pouring herself another cup.

Spamton nods. “Thanks for the coffee, Rider.”

“No problem!” She places two fingers against her temple and then sharply salutes as she skips out into the hall. “See you later, alligator.”

Spamton parrots the same gesture, waiting until her footsteps are no longer audible.

Once silent, he heads back down the corridor and stares blankly as the darkness consumes him.

He sips the coffee and gags at the bitterness as he descends the stairs.

☎️

As the minutes pass so does the silence. Addisons arrive one by one and the office creaks to life.

Everything feels off.

Rider stopped by his office at the expected time, but her presence, though no fault of her own, concerns Spamton.

She wasn’t Emil.

Though full of pep her queries felt like judgement and her reassurances platitudes.

He's perturbed and shouldn't be. She’s doing her work, yet that’s the problem.

It’s work and work only.

Rider's seen him in the office numerous times before becoming a team lead, normally to fix the printer. Not once did she say hello or look up from her desk. No one has. If anything, they looked up only in alarm as though detecting a spook or from curiosity as if beholding a sideshow.

Spamton feels more like a maus in the wall than an addison. Skittering about known but unknown. Cared only for the fact that he could fix printers and nothing else.

He’s like the discarded boxes and files in the closet that was his workstation.

Trash.

Just like his work.

Rider hasn’t given any feedback from his assigned client, nor has he received emails concerning them. Aside from hawking his company’s services to random potential clients, he has nothing else to do.

Nothing.

Listless ruby eyes stare at his desk filled with origami he’s made since Rider’s departure when he hears a ping.

Spamton jolts up and checks his email.

From: Sender Unknown

The mouse squeaks as he slides it towards the delete button, then hesitates.

Nothing.

There's nothing else to do.

He clicks the email and squints as the screen changes.

For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it lingers, wait for it. It will come and will not delay.

Spamton shakes his head and deletes the email.

ping

He pushes his glasses up.

From: Sender Unknown

click

Your salvation and perfection consist of doing the will of Heaven which you must have in view in all things, and at every moment of your life.

Spamton juts his jaw forward and forms a fist, banging it lightly twice upon the table before deleting this email too.

ping

Spamton deletes the email after a glance and empties the trash before seizing.

“Shit…” He clicks with haste through the garbage, but it’s gone.

Sweaty palms slide beneath the round spectacles atop his face as he leans forward; his heart racing. He shakes his head and rises, knowing what he must do.

The chair moans as he gets up, making way for the door. He opens it, ascending the stairs as fast as he can.

☎️

No one ever comes down to Spamton’s office for the sake of seeing him.

There was the occasional confusion from a new janitor. Someone looking for spare cleaning supplies. Oftentimes it was someone nagging him to fix the printer or berate him for it not working.

Spruce spoke to him once as a brief introduction. It was curt and banal. A breakdown of what w as required of him in the advertising department. How he had to work his way up the corporate ladder. That was it. And the only time Spruce came downstairs was when Emil was forced on temporary leave.

Spamton took no offense of these instances. It was business.

If he's being honest with himself, he can't complain. It's been forever since he made a genuine effort to mingle upstairs.

It’s shameful to admit, but he’s grown used to skittering about like a maus. He navigates the upper halls so early in the day that few even realize he’s there. Many know him only as a rumor or name, and he prefers it that way; especially considering how his previous attempts at socializing have gone.

Now he was forced to break habit and much like the hue of his plumage, his unease was apparent.

Spamton hones in at the worn, stained carpet as he slinks through the hall. Addisons scoot past while others stop in their tracks and whisper.

He enters the main bullpen, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground until he reaches Emil’s cubicle. The emptiness of it mirrors his own, much to his dismay. A male orange addison glances at him, and the look jolts Spamton back to reality. He quickly shifts his attention downward again and makes his way to Spruce’s office.

The door’s open.

Petite hands hug one another as Spamton clears his throat. Golden auburn eyes dart toward Spamton’s direction, causing him to lean back in surprise.

“Out of printer supplies?”

Spamton furrows his brow then shakes his head of the agitated expression. “No I umm - got your email but - but deleted it. By accident,” he adds as Spruce returns him a curious look.

“Oh, that,” Spruce leans back. “That was to inform you of your new team lead.”

“Rider; I’ve met her,” Spamton cuts in wincing upon doing so. He swallows, wincing one more at the tinge of sudden pain.

“Good. Well, she’ll be taking over for Emil.”

“Yes sir,” Spamton bows. “Was there anything else you needed to discuss?”

“No,” Spruce claims but something about his glare gives Spamton unease. Spamton bows again, turning to leave when Spruce continues. “Emil called in sick.”

He was hurt, Spamton feels himself almost say before catching himself. “Oh?” he settles on, trying to look surprised.

“Thought you’d like to know since you two spend a lot of time together,” Spruce explains, cocking his head to the side.

A spark of ire scratches at the back of Spamton’s throat, but he gulps it down. “I hope he feels better.” Spamton bows, turning again to leave.

“You’re sounding a bit hoarse yourself,” Spruce notes, pointing his pin to Spamton’s neck.

Shit…

“I’m - I’m not sick. I - karaoke. I sang too much,” he forces a laugh.

“Really?” Spruce raises a brow. “Wouldn’t expect that from you.”

“Why?” Spamton blurts, the heat of agitation laced in his punctuation.

“Just wouldn’t is all," Spruce shrugs.

Spamton bows, pivoting with haste.

“Should take Emil with you next time you go.”

Spamton skids to a stop.

“What?”

“To karaoke. He has a thing for tunes. Good ear. Good tempo. Bit scratchy on the voice. But good tempo.“

Spamton purses his lips, nodding with hesitance.

“He’s been a bit scatterbrained at work. A night of fun off the clock might set him straight.”

“Concerning work, Are there any updates on the client?” Spamton interjects, desperate to change the topic.

“Ah, yes. The pimple cream,” Spruce taps his fingers against one another. “Not yet. That client takes a while to review things. D-stacks respond fast or slow depending on how much they care. Either way, we’ll see. They’re almost an F-stack really,” Spruce chuffs, turning his golden auburn eyes to Spamton. “Shouldn’t be hard for you to land a sale.”

“Ok,” Spamton’s voice cracks. “Thank you,” he bows, exiting in full.

Spamton strides hurriedly through the bullpen but stumbles, nearly tripping over a worn patch of carpet. He dares not look up; the last thing he wants is to see if anyone is watching him. Regaining his composure, he inadvertently bumps into the door frame leading to the hall. He pushes forward with heightened urgency, descending the stairs.

Soles clack against the aged steps like the rhythmic cranks of a steam engine. With a swift motion, he hooks left, opening and slamming the door behind him.

☎️

Spamton stares at the note on his monitor.

Email IT team again about spam mail.

He chuckles.

What irony…

Spamton begins opening another program when -

ping

From: Sender Unknown

Subject: Despair Not

click

The righteous cry out, and Heaven hears them. Heaven delivers them from all their troubles.

Spamton leans back, licks his lips and looks at the clock.

It’s almost 12pm.

He cracks his knuckles and types.

Really?

He presses send.

ping

Spamton furrows his brow and squints, sharpening his focus.

From: Sender Unknown

Subject: Come

click

Come to me. So weary and burdened. I will give you rest and riches untold.

Spamton pushes his glasses up and leans forward while typing another message.

You’re sure about that?

click

ping

From: Sender Unknown

Subject: Yes

Spamton catches his breath, clicking the email with haste.

The blessing of Heaven makes a person rich and adds no sorrow with it.

Spamton starts to pant as he types.

Who is this?

click

ping

From: Sender Unknown

Subject: You Know Who

Spamton clutches his chest as sharp, ragged breaths escape him.

click

Heaven reveals deep and hidden things, Spamton. Heaven knows what lies in darkness and light dwells within. What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight. What you have whispered in the ear in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the roofs.

A strange sensation crawls down Spamton’s spine, pulsing through his heart with each beat. Sound fades away. Awareness slips away. All that exists is the screen; the cathode-ray tube before him. Bricks of red, green, and blue emit a blinding light. Words whisper amongst the static like profound harbingers of something beyond his grasp.

He drowns in it. Losing himself when -

RING

Spamton gasps. Claws dig deep in his chest bringing him too. He rips them from the fabric of his shirt, heaving in pure panic.

RING

He snatches the phone.

“Hello?”

“Spamton?”

He gulps, clenching his throat.

“Are you ok? What’s going on?”

“Who is this?” he snarls.

“It’s Emil… You, told me to call you around lunch. What’s going on?”

Emil.

It’s just Emil.

Spamton wipes his face and gulps. “Emil, hey. Sorry, I ummm -” he looks at his screen and closes the window with a jittery click. “Just - just startled me is all. What’s up?”

“Well,” Emil continues, concern constricting his tone, “I got back from the doctor’s. They found nothing abnormal except for some mild bruising. Said to call back if I feel anything unusual in the next few days.”

“Oh, that’s - that’s great, Emil,” Spamton sighs, collecting himself. “I’m glad you’re ok.”

“Thanks, me too,” Emil chuckles. “Well, that's all I have to say. I shouldn’t keep you too long. You need a checkup too.”

“What?” Spamton asks absently, staring at his computer screen.

“The doctor’s. You said you’d get a checkup around lunch.”

“Yea, yea…” Spamton murmurs, rubbing his chest, still catching his breath.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yea, sorry; I - umm…” Spamton clasps his eyes shut then opens them. “Have you gotten weird spam emails at work?”

“Well, if that’s addison for, ‘do you get annoying emails from coworkers a lot,’ then yea,” Emil laughs, “I do.”

“No,” Spamton shakes his head. “Weird ones. Anonymous ones; about heaven.”

Silence.

“No,” Emil responds with caution.

More silence.

“If you’re getting emails like that, you should tell IT.”

“Yea,” Spamton taps the table. "I've blocked these kinds of emails before, but I keep getting them.”

"Email IT. Tell them to expedite the issue if it’s clogging your inbox. Especially if it keeps happening.”

“I wrote a note to do that earlier today. Forgot about it.”

“Ok. That's good…” Emil acknowledges still on edge. “You sure you’re ok?”

“Yea,” Spamton chuckles weakly, rubbing his forehead. “Just tired.”

“Yea, you would be. Especially since I didn’t help in that regard…”

“Emil -”

“But yea; they’ll take care of it,” Emil continues. “If they don’t, tell me n’ I’ll badger them about it,” he laughs before turning somber. “I may not be your team lead anymore, but I’m still your boyfriend.”

Spamton chuckles. “You’ll always be my team lead, Emil.”

“And you’ll always be my guy,” Emil whispers, beaming with pride. The warmth of his words makes Spamton squirm. “Now go get that checkup and get back to work,” he adds, his tone jovial. “Love you.”

Spamton melts into the chair as he grins ear to ear. “Love you too.” He holds on to the receiver until hearing it click and the dial tone.

With a sigh, he returns to his keyboard and opens the email client. He quickly types a message to the IT department and hits send.

Small digits rub the side of his neck. It’s tender and a few feathers are missing. He turns to the clock. It’s ten past twelve.

Spamton’s never called out for work before aside from - well…

It’s not a big deal. He’d only be delayed twenty or so minutes, yet…

No.

He told Emil he would.

Snowy plumage lays in stark contrast to the receiver as he picks it up, dialing a number.

RING

He swallows.

RING

RI -

“Hello? Is this Rider?” Spamton asks nervously.

Chapter 25

Notes:

Sorry for the three-month delay in updates. Life's been doing what it does best. :')

As always, comments are always appreciated! They're always motivation fuel. 💕

Each day was a reboot for Spamton. But not in a pleasant way.

Work.

Home.

Work.

Home.

A marionette.

A machine.

A clock.

Each motion a rotation of an organic cog composed of sinew and blood.

Each cog thrust to action with the beat of his heart.

Each beat a tick of the inevitable reset.

Rote as the sands of time.

No events to attend with loved ones.

No expectations of something promising.

It was sad.

It was pathetic.

It was his life.

Was.

Today feels different.

Today is different.

He has a loved one.

He has a promise.

A phone call.

This newfound change, meaning, and purpose propel him forward like an arrow through time, beyond the confines of the wheel that was.

Spamton sprints to the bus stop and, from there, towards home. His heart races alongside his stride, in cadence with adrenaline fueled passion.

Keys clatter against the metal knob as he unlocks the door and enters his abode. Shoes bounce atop the worn carpet as he hastily kicks them off, switching on the light.

The ceiling light sputters for a moment before fizzling out.

“Dammit…” Spamton curses with a hiss, closing the door and tossing his keys onto the nightstand by the foldout couch.

Replacing a bulb isn’t a simple task for someone of his stature. No matter. It’s not important - not now.

Aching yet agile feet traverse with eerie familiarity through the dark room. His movements are brisk and confident as he heads toward a desk.

With a pull of a cord, light sputters from a desk lamp. A soft, golden glow casts itself over the clutter of office supplies and tattered paper.

Paper crumples in his grasp as he sifts through the mail, tossing junk into the trash with an absent flick of his wrist. The rest crackles and pops as he shoves it into a worn, disorganized shoebox.

Spamton frowns at the mountain of overdue tasks mocking him within the box. He should sort through it; he knows that. But not now. Later. He’ll do it later.

His attention swivels to the phone to call Emil when he halts.

He turns, looking at his answering machine.

A red light blinks with a steady beat.

There’s a voicemail.

Spamton stares at the phone.

Why is he being weird? It's a voicemail. If he were a gambling man, he'd bet it's Emil. Of course it's Emil.

Spamton smiles at his sheepishness as he plods closer to the machine, pressing play.

A faint crackle carries through the air.

Strange…

It's not coming from the answering machine's speaker.

It’s coming from the receiver.

Spamton furrows his brow.

How could that happen when the phone’s still on the switch hook…

He swallows, rubbing his index finger against his thumb.
Stop being weird.

It's just a bug.

Darn thing's so old of course it's a bug...

Cautious fingers grasp the handset, placing the receiver against his ear.

Static.

Spamton leans in closer.

More static...

Wait -

There; a faint… Something...

“Hello?”

The something…

It grows…

Feathers along Spamton’s spine stand on end as he lowers his head into his shoulders with a snarl slashed across his face.

click

Dialtone.

A faint crackle carries through the air.

Spamton sets the handset back into the switchhook and backs away, rubbing the nape of his neck and clenching his shirt.

Shower.

He should shower.

☎️

Spamton stands transfixed in the nothingness of the aged porcelain tile surrounding him. Warm water, smelling of earth and rust, washes away the wear of the day. Thick white lashes flicker as beads of moisture accumulate and fall along his cheeks, plummeting to the drain below.

He knows better than to idle in the shower due to the monthly bill, but it’s one of the few reprieves he has. Spamton sighs and goes slack from the warm sensation of water pouring down his battered and bruised body. Despite the gloom emanating from the small bulb in the dingy bathroom and the faint scent of mildew, it calms him. It’s a brief moment of true quiet - one where his mind can simply be.

Yet...

The phone...

Lamenting moans are lost in the hiss of steam slithering through the showerhead. Rust scrapes against rust as Spamton grips the faucet, straining to turn it off. He shakes like a dog. Droplets catapult into the air as if jettisoned from a sprinkler. Once drip-free, Spamton steps onto the mat, drying his feet. Claws clack against the moist tile as he ambles to the sink and ascends a stepping stool, reaching for a rickety shelf above the toilet. He grabs a small dryer and wiggles its plug into the outlet, giving it a firm push to ensure it’s in.

Warm air glides through snowy plumage, soothing aching flesh. Spamton’s mouth falls agape in relief at the sensation. Feeling dry, he uses his claw to flick the switch off, unplugs the dryer, and sets it on the shelf above the toilet.

Fingers glide through the toasty plumage to inspect the results. Satisfied, he turns to leave, then stops.

He hesitantly rests his hand on the interior of his neck along his throat. There's a noticeable swell hidden beneath the plumage. He tilts his head for a better view. Downy feathers prick out at an angle revealing the extent of the bruise.

He’s fine.

The doctor said he‘s fine.

Yet -

Spamton leans into the mirror, stroking his plumage for further inspection. Curious, restless eyes ricochet upward before snapping down with haste, his gaze transfixed on the sink as a frown forms. Mild pain radiates in his lower lip as his canines press down like pincers. He picks at the left side of his chest in agitation.

Come on.

Look.

Spamton raises an eyebrow and smirks, coarsely rubbing his chin.

He clenches the sink’s edge and looks up to the horizon.

White eyelids cascade down over ruby eyes like an avalanche. A sharp exhale escapes his aching chest. He gives a rigid nod and shakes his head, trying again.

Teeth, white as porcelain, shine through his grimace as he returns a pensive stare to the man in the mirror.

A sharp swell of emotion foams forth, then falls flat without warning.

Nothing.

There’s nothing.

Through the nothing flows numbness. He stares beyond the mirror with absent, detached regard.

ring

Spamton gasps and comes to. His eyes fix on the terrified visage before him.

ring

He stumbles off the stepping stool and out of the bathroom, reaching for a dresser to his left.

ring

Shit.

Claws dig into the carpet as he scrambles toward the phone, then snaps back.

What if…

ring

He gulps.

ring

Spamton growls, clasping the handset as if it were a hot iron.

Rattled breath sprints from his lungs.

“Emil?”

“…No.”

“Oh,” Spamton sighs, rubbing his forehead before resting his hand on his chest. “P-Popper. Hey.”

“Hey…” Popper replies hesitantly. “Are you ok? You sound out of breath.”

“Yea, I - no, um… I was in the shower.” Spamton covers his groin in embarrassment as if Popper were present. “Just got out - I just got out of the shower.”

“Do you need me to call back?”

“No,” Spamton reassures with a wince. “I’m clothed. I’m not naked or anything.”

“…That’s good… I guess…”

Shit...

“I’ll keep it brief since it’s a weekday. Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Tried calling Emil, but I guess he’s busy,” Popper explains, his usual flat affect wavering with a hint of concern.

Spamton paces, rubbing his upper neck. “Emil went to the doctor. They found nothing weird or bad. Same for me. Beyond a bit of bruising on my neck and back, there’s nothing.”

“That’s good. Still, keep an eye on it. Sometimes the body’s under so much stress that it takes a few days for the pain to sink in.”

“Yea, tell me about it,” Spamton titters, looking out the window at the abandoned building in front of him. A black void, obscured by dingy glass, looks back at him. “I’ve been in a few tussles.”

“… Really?” Popper notes with surprise and interest.

“Well, not that - I mean… Not that I won any, just…” Spamton trails off and swallows, looking away from the window. “How was work?”

“It was fine,” Popper responds with a knowing tone. “Nothing of interest in that regard.”

“That’s good,” Spamton says, licking his lips as his petite fingers entangle themselves in the cord. “Did - umm - so there were no problems? With... With Trigger?”

Silence.

“He was quiet. Calm,” Popper claims.

“That’s an oxymoron...” Spamton huffs, his grip on the cord loosening slightly. “But that’s good, right?”

“Hard to say. I’ve only seen him verbally fight Emil. Nothing like last night. Not with anyone.”

“Hmm...” Spamton picks at his chest.

“I’m keeping an eye on him,” Popper reassures, as if sensing Spamton’s unease. “I’ll let you know if anything seems amiss. And you do the same.”

“Yea,” Spamton agrees, clearing his throat with a wince.

“I’ll let you go for now. Give Emil a call. Make sure he’s ok.”

“Of course,” Spamton nods. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

click

Spamton licks his lips and dials Emil’s number, placing the set against his ear.

ring

ri-

“Hey,” Emil greets, his tone warm as a winter’s fire.

“Hey,” Spamton sighs, pulling out his desk chair and plopping down. He rubs his chest absentmindedly. “You sound tired. Did I wake you?”

“No. Took a nap. Just a little groggy,” Emil chuffs with a cough. “It’s good to hear your voice. Oh, yea - hey, um, did you go to the doctor?” Emil asks, becoming a bit more alert.

“Yea, I did.”

“How’d it go?”

“It went well,” Spamton nods. “They did some blood work and a physical. Found nothing out of the ordinary but told me to call emergency if certain symptoms pop up. I’n keeping an eye on it,” he adds reassuringly. “But I feel fine.”

“I’m glad. That’s good,” Emil laughs warmly. “I know we see each other almost every day, but it felt weird not being at work with you. Especially -” he pauses. “I missed you.”

“Ditto,” Spamton agrees with a somber tone, leaning into the phone. “I know what you mean. Everything felt off - really off…”

“I bet,” Emil agrees with a somber tone. “I was antsy all day. Kept pacing around, as if looking for something. I think I was looking for you, heh. Feels weird to not do that. My check-ins.”

“Totally,” Spamton chuckles with a sigh, fiddling with the cord. “Speaking of check-ins, I met Rider.”

“Oh,” Emil notes, his tone curious. “Is she your new team lead?”

Spamton leans back. “Yea… Didn’t you know?”

There’s a pause.

“No,” Emil responds flatly. “Spruce never told me who was taking over for me.” There’s a brief pause. “Rider’s nice. Bit chatty, but nice. I think you two will get along.”

“I dunno... We talked in the breakroom before anyone showed up. Bumped into each other. She was chatty. Very chatty. But - I felt weird.”

“Why?”

“I’m not good at small talk. Add that to the list of things to improve on,” Spamton smirks, a twinge of uncertainty in his expression.

“That’s doubtful,” Emil jests. “But if you’re having trouble, just pretend it’s me.”

“If I do that, she’ll call HR on me,” Spamton titters.

“Yea,” Emil laughs breathlessly, “shame it’s not me.” The sound of his voice sparks a heat within Spamton’s core. “We’ll have to devise another game plan, huh?”

“Y-yea, uh -Pops called,” Spamton diverts, exhaling sharply and rubbing his chest. “Said he tried to get ahold of you.”

“Ah…” Emil notes, his voice tinged with disappointment at the sudden change of topic. “I should call him before bed.”

“I told him about your doctor’s appointment. He seemed satisfied with that. Besides, I think he’d prefer you take it easy. You need the rest.”

“Yea,” Emil agrees, though hesitantly. “I should go back to bed soon. I have work in the morning. I’ll make sure to call him tomorrow.”

A tightness grips Spamton. “Work?”

“Yea. I called Spruce today. Said I’d be back tomorrow.”

“Em -”

“Doctor gave me a clean bill of health,” Emil continues, restraining a cough.

“Emil…”

“I’m ok, Spamton,” Emil reassures, clearing his throat again. “Really.”

“Your eye -”

“It’s fine, and I’ve got makeup,” Emil presses. “The swelling’s barely noticeable, and with my complexion, you won’t even see it tomorrow. I’ve -” There's an audible gulp. “I’ve been through worse… I’m fine.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” Emil jabs.

“… I watched you get thrown against a car… pummeled…”

The warble of Emil’s breath shakes through the speaker.

Spamton grimaces, straining to swallow and taken aback. “You were catatonic. You -”

“I’m talking now,” Emil interrupts, his tone tinged with something foul. “I’m walkin' and talkin'.”

“You’re not going to work,” Spamton declares. “You need to rest.”

“And I have,” Emil states, his impatience clear.

“The doctor -”

“Gave us both a green light.”

“... That's different.”

“How?”

“No one talks to me; sees me. Nothing’s -” Spamton taps the table before throwing up his hand. “Nothing’s expected of me. It would be weird if both of us were out.”

“And that’s why I’m going to work.”

“No, Emil. You’re not.”

Silence.

“… Fine,” Emil relents.

Spamton wipes his eyes, unsure of what to do. “Emil, you’re going through a lot. I’m -”

“I’m always ‘going through a lot,’” Emil snaps. “You act like I don’t know how to navigate this. But unfortunately, I do and I have. Many times. Meetings? Events. All of it. ”

“And you shouldn’t have to. You shouldn’t have to pretend like nothing happened.”

“Pretend… Really?” Emil scoffs.

“Yes,” Spamton doubles down firmly.

“We’re talking about it right now. We’ve - talked about other things too,” Emil asserts with a pant.

“And you do it with this… weird - ‘happiness’ or… or dismissive way like you stubbed your toe.”

An agitated sigh shoots back at Spamton through the receiver.

"The bar? The car? I know it sucks. It sucks having someone see that. Not being able to fight back, or even try and getting your ass kicked. It sucks living with it, talking about it - everything. But it sucks just as much sitting here on the phone, unable to convince you to stay home. Please, Emil. You need a break from pretending you’re ok when you’re not. From pleasing others when it’s killing you. Take a break. From all of it. Even if it's just for one day." Spamton leans forward, pressing his hand to his forehead. A sharp sting pricks at his nose. He sniffles and rubs it.

“… I’ll stay home,” Emil whispers, his voice cracking. “Sorry…”

“Ditto…” Spamton nods and fidgets with a sheet of paper atop his desk, unsure of what else to say.

The silence is deafening. The needle-like pricks of restlessness skitter from his nose to his entire being, agitating him. But he remains composed.

“You know, today wasn’t all bad,” Emil titters nervously. “I made origami.”

Spamton sits up. “Yea?”

“Yea. Made so much I ran out of notebook paper. Ended up using magazine scraps.”

“Wow. Buzzing like a bee, I see,” Spamton returns with a faint smile.

“It’s ‘busy as a bee,’” Emil laughs.

“Oh,” Spamton smiles more broadly, rubbing the side of his face. “What did you make?”

“Only what you showed me. So… foxes, rabbits, gerbils, hearts. Lots of hearts.”

“That’s impressive. You remembered all that? Not - not that you couldn’t,” Spamton gestures nervously. “Just - it took me a while before I could even memorize making a boat.”

“You’re a good teacher. It’s the only reason I could remember.”

Spamton opens his mouth to counter the compliment but refrains. “Thanks. Bet the new ones are really good if you went through a whole notebook,” he settles on, rubbing his chest.

“What? You’re saying the ones I made yesterday are bad?”

“No,” Spamton stammers, leaning forward. “No, no, they aren't bad.”

“It’s ok, Spamton, I’m messing around. And you’re right, even if you deny it. They’re better than before. I’ll have to show you next time you’re over. Or…” Emil pauses, speaking softly, “I could come to your place.”

A chill sprints down Spamton’s spine. “My place?”

“Yea. It’s only fair. I -”

“You don’t want to come by my place.”

Silence.

“Why not?”

A throbbing ache radiates through Spamton with each heartbeat. “My place, it’s -” he closes his eyes, “small.”

“That’s fine.”

“No, Emil it’s really really small and -”

Say it.

“It’s not like your place.”

“Your place has tenants like mine, right? Meets ISHL standards, same as mine?” Emil chuffs, his tone becoming more somber as he continues. “I know I didn’t show up in the best of states last time I was there, but if my recollection’s correct, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“You know what I mean,” Spamton snarks.

A soft sigh caresses Spamton's ear as if to calm him. “I'd love to come over. I want to. Seriously.”

The intensity of Emil’s admission… No. Spamton swallows the thought. “If you're lookin' for a sty, then swing on by,” he taunts with a shaky singsong voice.

“Hey, that's a good jingle,” Emil chuckles, striving to ease the tension. “And I doubt it’s a sty.”

“Well -”

“If anything, small places are cozy.”

“Emil -”

“I bet it’s -”

“Stop; please…”

“... What's wrong? Seriously?”

“My apartment… How I live...” Spamton shakes his head in agitation. “It’s not - it’s not anything to boast about…”

“You work hard and have a roof over your head,” Emil declares with stark sincerity. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Spamton.”

“Yea? Well, I am,” Spamton chides with a tremble. “You wouldn’t like it here. It's depressing...”

“You think I like being at my place?” Emil ricochets with a ticked temper.

Spamton tenses, taken aback. “I mean - yea. Don’t you?”

“No. I hate it.”

Spamton furrows his brow. He inhales, starting to ask why, but something tells him he already knows.

Emil exhales methodically and appears to wipe his face, from the sound of it. “Want to know what I did with the rest of my day?”

“Sure,” Spamton responds, confused by the change of topic.

“I watched TV. Tried to, at least. You know, pass the time.”

“Really?” Spamton cocks his head to the side with a soft smile. “What did you watch?”

“Don’t remember. But I remember the song. Simple little ditty - not worth singing,” Emil notes, despite humming it anyway.

“Oh, I know that movie. Seen it, that is. Don’t remember the name.” Spamton perks up. “It’s a musical. Came out in '86.”

“So you are a music man,” Emil notes with a cheeky chirp.

“Hey - a musical isn’t the same as music,” Spamton jovially returns. “I mean, sure - it has music, but it’s not… ‘Music’ music, you know? And it’s not like I’m rearin’ to watch. I'll watch them if there's nothing else on.”

“Sure,” Emil wistfully submits.

“But I know that song. Would sing it all the time.” Spamton sings a few lines, expecting Emil to join, but he doesn’t. He stops, pursing his lips. “So uh, did you finish it?”

“... No.”

“Oh,” Spamton returns feebly. “Fell back asleep? Or -”

“The scene with the motorcycle. I stopped there.”

“That scene!” Spamton exclaims. “That scene's great! That harsh cut when he uh -” Spamton taps the desk. “Slams on the breaks then snatches the bouquet,” he snaps his fingers.

“Yea.”

“That crescendo when he’s belting that bar.”

“Yea.”

“Well, I don’t know the terms, you know. I’m not - heh, I’m not you. I don’t, I don’t know music theory. But, you know, that moment. When his girlfriend - she does that, I think… pirouette? That part. One of the best parts in the movie, if you ask me.” Spamton exhales sharply with excitement. “So why - why stop there? You were almost to the end.”

“Zoned out,” Emil murmurs. “When I perked back up, I remembered -” He chuckles with a shaky swallow. “I remembered the bum. Sleazy Shou, I think was his name. He, uh, took a swig of Kaigan; gave them a salute. Then I remembered… I hadn’t had a drink in about - two days or so; three.”

“Really? That’s good, Emil,” Spamton congratulates with enthusiasm.

“Thanks.”

“You know when we were at the bar? I noticed you only got a glass of water.” Spamton smiles, looking down and rubbing the side of his face. “I think that’s great. That you’re taking it seriously. You know - not for me. But yourself.”

“Yea…”

Spamton picks at his chest, aware of Emil’s restraint. “Don’t know if talking about it helps, but thinking about it daily will help a lot. It’s hard to measure progress when measuring miles instead of steps.”

“Three days,” Emil clears his throat. “That’s not impressive.”

“What?” Spamton leans forward. “Of course it is. Quitting alcohol? It’s not easy. Three days is nothing to scoff at. Especially when tomorrow will be your fourth.”

“Too bad then. I had a drink. Then another. And another…”

Spamton purses his lips as the corners of his mouth pull down taut.

A faint exhale makes Emil’s dismay as evident as the light bleeding into Spamton’s room from a passing car.

Lips part as Spamton starts to speak then stops. He sits in silence as his index finger rubs his mouth and his thumb anchors his jaw. “What were you feeling?”

“Disappointed, of course…” Emil confesses.

“I meant in the moment. Before you drank.”

“... This an intervention?” Emil asks with a wary jest.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” Spamton explains, aware of how he sounds and of Emil’s slight offense. “I just want to understand, you know? It’s - I want to understand. To help.”

“Well, I’ve told you before about the thoughts. Buzzing around, busy as bees. More like wasps. Bees make honey, at least… And, well, it’s - not an excuse.” Emil moans. “Wanna’ know what’s funny?”

“... What?”

“What happened yesterday? The bar? I forgot it even happened. Crazy, I know. But…” Emil sniffs, clearing his throat. “Get knocked around more than once, and it blurs together sometimes. Got pretty good at pushing it to the back of my mind with enough focus. Had to. Even without a drink,” he chuffs. “But that movie…”

Spamton’s claws dig into his left breast as the source of Emil’s consternation solidifies. “I get it…”

“Silly what can upset you…” Emil snides.

“It’s not silly,” Spamton counters. “I mean - without context, going stiff at the sight of apartment mailboxes is silly… Do you think -” Spamton rests his hand against his lips, halting to choose his words carefully. “I talked to Popper about Trigger. He said he shouldn’t be a problem.” Spamton waits for a response and receives none. Worried, he presses further. “And if there is, Pops has your back. So do I.” Still silence. “He… He doesn’t know where you live - does he?”

“No,” Emil weakly chuckles with contempt. “We only hung out at bars and -” a strange sound comes from the receiver, “and love hotels…” There’s a pause. “And I never put my phone or address in the hello pages. Especially since…” He trails off.

Spamton clenches the phone. “That’s good. Besides - your place has cameras at the entrances. He’d be stupid to try anything.”

“That doesn’t stop people, Spamton,” Emil notes, his voice warbling. “And even if it did…”

“Then what?” Spamton waits again for Emil to clarify, but he doesn’t. Agitated, he picks at his chest once more. Smooth fingers glide to his clavicle, his index resting on his neck. He tenses upon feeling the divot from the bruise. “You know, it’s strange… I didn’t think of him at all today either. I mostly thought about work or you. Then - ” he bites his tongue. “I got home. Got in the shower…”

“Is it bad?”

“What?”

“The bruising,” Emil clarifies with hushed concern. “How bad is it?”

Something about Emil's familiarity with such a scenario presses down on Spamton.

“No. Just a little bruising; nothing serious. According to the doctor, at least. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you drink.”

An indiscernible, strange sound trickles through the receiver.

“That mailman incident I told you about… Over time, the thoughts faded. Kind of. Then this happened. When I got out the shower and looked in the mirror, it hit me like a roller coaster. I felt a sharp pain then went numb. And… I didn’t just feel nothing. I felt like I wasn’t even there - like I wasn’t in my own body or able to control it. Then something else - filled that space. Took control. Something...” A dull pain radiates through Spamtons chest as he pinches his breast. “Then the phone rang. Kinda’ snapped me out of it.” He licks his lips. “... I’m afraid to hang up, Emil. To be alone with with my thoughts.” Ruby eyes flick to the desk, landing on a white origami rabbit. “I don’t drink much. Too much of a lightweight. But I watch TV. Even if I’m not paying attention, it’s on. Always on.”

“Drowning in thoughts is one thing,” Emil murmurs. “That and booze is another.”

Spamton’s expression hardens like stone. “No, Emil. Drowning’s drowning. All I do when I’m not at work or the bar is watch TV. I can’t be alone with my thoughts - I have to drown them out.” He kicks his feet, swiveling the chair to face the room, absorbing the accumulation of his efforts. Then, his gaze locks on the TV. Its ebony screen reflects his disdain. “But I’m not drowning it out. I’m still drowning. I’m drowning myself and I’m sick of it.”

“Yea,” Emil echoes.

Spamton turns back to his desk and picks up something from the corner. Petite fingers caress the object. “When I came back from medical leave, I was... paralyzed with fear. I thought it was just that unit - if I passed it, I could go on. Do my job. But it spread. First the unit, then the apartment, the street, the whole route... I couldn’t do it. Even walking home was paralyzing.” He exhales, pressing his hand to his chest. “I was always afraid someone like him would be waiting. That incident? My bike? What were the odds? I was already drowning here. Still drowning.” Spamton’s gaze drifts from the TV to the window, to the harsh neon light filtering in. “I couldn’t drown out there, too.”

“At least - you don’t quit,” Emil remarks after a stretch of silence. “Even if you’re drowning you’re doing a damn good job of treading water. Better than me.”

Spamton furrows his brow as the stain of resignation becomes clear in Emil’s response. “I’m not better than you, Emil.”

“I failed.”

“You haven't failed if you’re still trying.”

“This really is an intervention, huh?”

“No,” Spamton counters. “I’m your boyfriend making sure you don’t fall off the cliff of despair. I’m not judging you - at least, not negatively. Well...” He pauses, recalculating. “No, I am judging you. And this is an intervention. And you know what I see?”

“What do you see?”

“I see a kind, self-aware man trying to be better. Someone who’s being honest with me - even if it hurts to admit he stumbled.”

A sharp snivel is returned in response.

“… Instead of going cold turkey, why not… cut back a little?”

“So, still drink?” Emil questions with skepticism.

Spamton licks the side of his lip in contemplation. “Yea.”

“I’m trying to quit, Spamton.”

“I know. Remember when I said I couldn’t even walk outside without losing it?”

“Yea.”

“Well, I walk home all the time now, right?”

“... Yea,” Emil confirms with a methodical tone.

“Like I said, I was tired of drowning. So, I took it slow. I walked in the neighborhood, block, then the street. But…” Spamton catches himself and diverts. “What if you tried that? Big to small? Get something lighter and mix… I dunno’… half of what you like in it. Taper it from there?”

“… I’m afraid I’ll cheat… I could always open another bottle. Take a swig or a shot. Not trying to make excuses, but I’m afraid of failing again…”

“You went cold turkey for three days, Emil. You can do it. And if you stumble, you’ll get back up. And if you feel like you can’t, I’ll be there to lift you. Despite my stature, being a mailman has made me strong,” Spamton jokes to ease the tension.

A subtle, timid laugh trickles from Emil through the receiver. “Ok, coach.”

“That’s the attitude I like! Now, hit the shower! You’ve got a full day ahead of you!” Spamton winces at his remarks.

“Don’t know if sleep and mulling around the apartment count as a busy day, but… yea, a full day’s a full day,” Emil chuckles with budding confidence.

“Hey, sometimes a full day’s relaxing and nothing else.”

“Yeah,” Emil agrees, a hint of surprise lacing his tone. “Well, I’ll hit the shower, like you said.” There’s a brief pause. “Thanks for letting me ramble... and, you know, for dealing with me.”

“Emil, I’m not ‘dealing’ with you. I’m here for you.”

“And I’m lucky you are,” Emil whispers, his voice softening. “Love you.”

A hot warmth surges through Spamton’s core. “L-love you too.”

Spamton lingers on the line until the familiar click of the receiver sounds and the call disconnects, followed by the dial tone.

He taps the table and lingers for a moment before his attention drifts to something resting in the corner of his desk. After a beat, he exhales sharply, blowing air through his teeth, before standing and heading toward the bathroom.

Spamton flicks on the light and winces, despite the bulb’s pitiful glow. He ascends the stool and gulps. Ruby eyes creep toward the mirror and halt.

No.

Look.

As though turning a rusted valve, Spamton strains to tune his gaze upward, but with great effort, he does.

The moment his eyes align with his reflection, a grimace further distorts what’s there. The compulsion to descend and leave hits him like the crack of a whip, but he fights it.

He fights to stay.

To see.

Lips part a hair as a weak utterance escapes his aching chest.

“I…” he clears his throat, wincing from the pain. Maybe it’s nerves, maybe it’s the delay Popper mentioned, but it feels as though something - no, someone is squeezing the very life from his lungs.

You won't do shit, nitwit.

“I…” his voice warbles as he shakes.

Maggot.

“...”

You little maggot.

The tightness swells like the grip of a viper.

Of him.

Everything goes dark. Pain splinters through Spamton’s eyes as he clenches them shut with such force stars trickle in and out of existence.

thump

Day by day.

thump

It'll go away

THUMP

Blinding light fills Spamton’s consciousness.

It settles.

And then -

He sees.

He grips the sink, ruby eyes stare back at him.

“I … I matter… I belong… I’m - I am me. And that’s not wrong.”

Notes:

Also, drew some updated doodles a while back of Emil and Trigger!

Aaaand I have an Etsy with some Spamton merch! 🧡✨

Chapter 26

Notes:

Sorry again for the near three month delay! Life's not been too kind as of late.

But I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! We're in the home stretch!

blink

blink

blink

A faint cursor pulsates like the tick of a clock on the monitor.

It’s Thursday.

Beyond calls with Emil and the ebbing aches from his assault, Spamton's week has been banal. An endless loop of purposelessness and boredom tinged with dread.

Dread for having more customers block his email sales attempts.

Dread for his inability to formulate a new pitch.

Dread for his very job.

The pimple cream pitch is still in limbo.

Options.

They want more options.

Spamton hasn’t told Emil. Recovery - that should remain Emil’s focus.

Calls with Emil should be a relief. But as of late they feel like an act. A futile attempt to not worry him. Granted it's only been two days since the incident with Trigger, but it’s not only that.

Something.

Something has to be good.

Something good has to happen.

Claws clacking the table in sporadic spasms of awareness of his situation.

He misses Emil. He misses him dearly. In his absence, relentless anxiety has taken root.

Nothing

He’s nothing.

“Stop,” Spamton whimpers, closing his eyes - striking his fist atop the table.

A moan leaks through pursed lips as the chair creaks from him leaning back. He goes lax until the cadence of heels clicking down the staircase gives him pause. Frantic hands slick back his snowy crest with swift swipes and he springs forward, feigning a facade of diligence.

The door clicks open and a dull light floods in. Without warning, a bright light blinds him.

“Agh!” He yelps.

“Oh! Sorry,” Rider squeaks, turning the main light off. “I forgot you don’t like it on.”

“It's fine. I just - I prefer my lamp,” Spamton explains, rubbing his eyes.

“That - means you don’t like it on…” Rider corrects, clicking her pen at a rapid pace. “Soooo, as you know - I’m here for the morning check up!” she announces with a sing-song voice. “Wondering if you’ve made any progress on Up N’ Gone™.”

A blunt pain throbs through Spamton's chest. “No,” he responds, his voice flat with his attention retained on the screen.

“Oh.” What sounds like a pen clicking makes Spamton snarl. “Well, today’s Thursday. They’re hoping to have something in by this afternoon to decide Friday.”

“I know.”

”Ok! Well - if you could email something to the team an hour before five, that would be great.”

“Ok.”

“Ok,” Rider returns with a chipper yet consternated tone as she turns to leave.

“What I sent a while ago…” Spamton taps, staring at the blinking cursor. “Do you think it’s bad.”

“What?”

“Do you think my pitch is bad.”

“No. I don’t think it’s bad.”

Spamton turns to Rider a hair, his attention still locked on the cursor. “Would you turn it in as your final?”

blink

blink

blink

“I - well that’s hard to say," Rider responds, clicking her pen a few times. “I mean, I didn’t make -”

“Pretend you made it. Just - if you were the client, would you approve it?”

“I guess,” she returns, a hint of distress skittering past her breathless laugh.

“It’s a yes or no question,” Spamton clarifies in agitation, turning her way a touch more.

“Excuse me?” Rider corrects.

Spamton snaps his full attention upon her. “It's 'yes' or 'no'.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Spamton.”

A heated chuckle hisses through pressed teeth. “I’m not trying to have a tone. I’m trying to do my job and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I’ve looked through the database. The work submitted for - what am I doing?” He shakes his head with a smile. “What am I doing wrong?”

Rider stiffens. “I -”

“They don’t even read my emails. I haven’t had a single sale linked back to me since I’ve been here. I know I - I don’t -”

Rider looks away. Her stance is half turned from Spamton and she’s clutching her clipboard.

A sharp sensation slithers down Spamton's throat as he gulps. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, turning back around.

“… End of day.”

“... Yes, ma’am.”

Spamton doesn’t hear her leave. He doesn’t even hear the door click to a close. All he can do is stare ahead.

blink

blink

blink

☎️

Cyber City is a dark world. But it is far darker on days such as this.

Feet trudge against worn carpet as Spamton makes way for the bed, collapsing on top of it.

The soft sound of cars passing by and the tick of a clock remind him of his isolation save for one lone light. The green beacon flickering from his answering service.

He should call.

He needs to call.

Yet…

Spamton rises, grabs the entire phone set, and brings it to the bed, setting it on his nightstand. He dials Emil's number and picks up the receiver.

RING

RI -

 

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Spamton,” Emil greets with such warmth it makes Spamton smile. “It’s so nice to hear your voice. How are you feeling? How was work?”

The smile fades as a dull ache brews in Spamton’s chest. “It's been ok,” he murmurs. “I, uh, had to do more passes on the pimple cream account.”

There’s a pause. “Really?”

“Only a few. I think they want more options, just to be safe.”

“Their money, but they're crazy if they don't use the one you came up with last week.”

“Yea,” Spamton agrees with a feeble laugh. “You know I -”

Got nothing else.

Spamton stammers. “I... I think I can do better.”

Liar.

“Of course you can,” Emil asserts, “you're an addison.”

“Yea.”

“Still, it’s silly for them to pass on such a good pitch… With how good it is, I’m sure they’ll use it.”

“Think so?”

“I know so,” Emil laughs. “When I composed jingles, companies often went with my first pass out of the options I gave. Although it helped that I’d compose stinkers to make sure they did.”

“Well, I’m not a composer,” Spamton murmurs before quickly adding, “but - I kind of am, I think. I mean, I’m doing what you do without music, right?”

“Yea!” Emil agrees with enthusiasm. “Everything’s music in a way, you know? How we talk, work, all of it - there’s a time signature to it. A beat and rhythm. Like I said, your slogan’s pitch-perfect, jingle or not. Heck - it’s so good they'll ask Spruce to put you on more products. I’m sure of it.”

“… Yea.”

“... Are you ok?”

No.

“Yea.” Spamton places his hand atop his chest. “Tired is all. It’s been a long day.”

“Same.”

“I -”

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

Another pause settles in. It's clear Emil’s waiting for him to say what’s on his mind, but he refrains.

“Well, I’m sure you want to go to bed early. I should go back to sleep too," Emil yawns. “Had a rough night.”

Spamton sits up. “Are you ok? Is it from your injuries?”

“No, it’s - well, maybe. From my experience, I bounce back pretty fast. I honestly feel pretty good.”

Spamton frowns.

“It's -” hushed breaths break through the receiver. “Overthinking things,” Emil murmurs. “I have a small migraine. But I took some medication and slept off the worst of it. I’ll be fine with a bit more sleep. Right as rain.”

Spamton picks at the fibers of his shirt. The urge to tread through the mirage of Emil’s persistent pleasantries makes him itch. “That’s good. I’m sure you can’t wait to get back to work.”

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot actually; what I’ll do when I go back.”

“What do you mean? You’ll go back to what you do best,” Spamton reassures Emil and himself. “I’m sure everyone misses you. I mean - you’re the best team lead I know.”

“I’m the only team lead you know, Spamton,” Emil chortles, “except for Rider. But she’s good. Spruce chose her for a reason. He knew you two would get along.”

Spamton pinches his flesh, inhaling sharply.

“Right?”

“... Rider’s nice n’ all, but she’s not you. Feels weird having someone else come down there.”

“Yeah. I get it. When I started there I was…” Emil clears his throat. “New faces, new places, you know? They saw I was a nervous wreck and helped me feel at home. They were kind. They’re still kind. Rider’s a good person, Spamton. If anyone’ll make you feel at ease, it’s her.”

But she’s not you.

“She’s…” Spamton hesitates, choosing his words with care. “She and I are still getting used to each other. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to people there. Really talked to them. But you never know. If anything, she’ll help me improve. Being a new face I’ll see more regularly n’ all. Well, not ‘new’ new, but you know what I mean.”

“Yea,” Emil chuckles.

With that statement, Spamton purses his lips in contemplation. “You’ve been there a while. Do you…” have any friends there? “Is there anyone you’d consider close? Besides me?”

There’s a long stretch of silence. It’s so long in fact that Spamton panics. What a stupid question to ask… Yet - what did Spruce say…

We can’t have a repeat of last time.

A repeat of what?

Spruce admitted Emil was a valuable member ot the team. Told him that Emil liked karaoke and even knew how Emil sang as if he was there. Yet… Emil has never spoken at length about any of his coworkers. Spamton’s never seen him go to lunch with them on the few occasions he’s headed upstairs during that time. Did…

“They’re mostly acquaintances,” Emil responds. His tone is queer and flat while almost sounding like a question.

“Do you ever go to lunch with any of them? Or -”

“Sometimes,” Emil cuts in as if wanting to end the topic.

Spamton waits for Emil to elaborate more, but he doesn’t. “Oh,” he relents. “I was asking because I think going to lunches with people would be good for me. Maybe I could make some friends or - I dunno’... Toughen’ up my noggin’ for brainstorming. What do you think?”

“Yea,” Emil says with a hushed voice. “I think that could help.”

“I’ll try that then,” Spamton returns, a bit deflated.

“Fetch and Gofer are swell,” Emil notes as though aware of Spamton’s mood. “But we’ve only hung out once or twice out of the office and Spruce…” Spamton perks up. “I’d do lunch with them if you’re serious about it,” Emil suggests although it’s clear his mind’s elsewhere. He sighs. “I know it's only been a couple of days but it feels like an eternity since I've seen you.”

“Ditto,” Spamton swallows, licking his lips. “Bit of a shift, but I can't wait to be done with this client. It's been bugging me since I got the project. But the weekend's coming up," he notes with cheer. I’d come over Friday, but that project's got me so tied up I've forgotten to tidy my place. If that’s ok, me coming over Saturday that is. I mean - I might be able to come over a bit later on Friday if I get things in order, but probably not.”

“Of course you can come over. Friday - Saturday? Whenever you want,” Emil reassures with warmth. “It’s not like I have anything planned. We’ll do something around my area if you want. There’s plenty to do. Or we could take a drive to the busier districts. I need to get out of the apartment. Feels like I’ve been cooped up here so long I’m gathering dust.”

“Anything your way would be more than fun. Best my neighborhood has is a few pawn and and hooch shops,” Spamton smirks. “What do you normally do on weekends? You know, before me?”

“... Nothing really. I tend to sleep in. Walk around the neighborhood a bit if I’m awake. Go to the beach here and there in the summer. Used to surf but not so much anymore. I’m a bit of a bore,” he jokes with a nervous titter.

“You surf and you’re telling me you’re a bore,” Spamton chuffs. “Well - let’s pretend you’re boring. Guess that can be a late new years resolution for the both of us, getting out more. Much easier to do with someone than alone...” Spamton picks at a loose thread on his shirt. “What about karaoke? Ever do that?”

“What?” Emil responds with a crack in his voice.

Spamton shirks, sensing he’s pried into something he shouldn’t have. “You - well, we don’t have to do that. Was just a thought.”

“Used to," Emil responds with a wary tone. “My voice isn’t what it used to be.”

“Oh,” Spamton grits his teeth. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Even if it were up to par, I’m tuckered out on clubs for now and anything club-related.”

“Yea. Me too.” Spamton swallows, rummaging through scattered thoughts. “You know, since you’ve kind of introduced me to music, I’ve been listening to it more.”

“Really?”

“Well, not the radio or anything, but when I watch TV. I never realized how much work goes into it. Commercials, musicals, anything with music really. How if you change the genre or remove the song, the emotion is entirely different - or not there at all. It’s like magic almost. Bet you felt like a god when composing.”

“Magic. Heh, that’s an interesting way of thinking about it. But I didn’t feel like a god. I felt alive. What I couldn’t say through words I said through song.”

I felt alive.

“I bet that’s nice. Being able to feel that through music. Better than sitting around watching TV. At least you can create, I just consume,” Spamton chuckles from embarrassment.

“I could show you when you come over.”

Spamton sits up. “Show me what?”

“How to play.”

“Really?” he says in surprise. “I mean - I’ll try, but I’m all thumbs. What you played is way out of my league.”

“Thanks, I’m no Nobuko, but will take what I can get,” Emil chuffs. “And don’t worry, I’ll teach you something simple like Sakura.”

“Sakura?”

“Yea. You’ve never heard it?”

“I’ve heard it, but it still seems advanced.”

“Not at all. It was the first song I ever learned. It’s slow and short. You'll get it in no time.”

I won’t.

Spamton gulps, looking out the window into the void of nothing staring back. “You’re right. If you’re teaching me, then I will.”

“That’s the spirit,” Emil bolsters with a soft cheer. “Well, I better go back to bed. Goodnight. Love you. And good luck tomorrow, even though you don’t need it.”

“Yea,” Spamton whispers, “love you too.”

click

Spamton stands, putting the phone back atop the filing cabinet and turns around, walking to the bathroom. He showers and dries himself off, then prepares to descend from the step stool but halts, turning instead to the mirror.

The corner of his mouth twitches as the compulsion to look away tenses in his neck, but he maintains his gaze until his breathing calms.

“… I matter, I belong… I’m me, and…” Spamton straightens his posture, lifts his head, gazing intently at his reflection. “And that’s not wrong.”

Spamton nods with conviction and descends the stool and enters the living room. He grabs a book from his nightstand and turns the TV onto a channel with classical music.

☎️

Friday.

This is it.

Gum, wraps, and other indiscernible black stains litter the floor beneath Spamton’s feet.

The bus jerks to a stop. He rises, making way to the platform, and descends.

The parking lot at work is empty. As usual, he’s early. He uses his card key and enters. Carpet ruffles beneath his feet as he traverseses the hallway toward the flight of stairs when a light in the lunch room catches his attention.

He approches. His needle white nose poking around the corner.

“Heya, Spamton!”

Spamton flinches, pulls back, thinks better of it, and enters. “Hey, Rider,” he waves.

“Early bird again I see,” she chirps. “Then again - I think you told me that… Did you tell me that?”

“I - I don’t know.”

“Well,” she scoffs, “you probably did. Knowing me I forgot.”

“Yea… umm - Rider, I -”

“Hmm?”

Spamton hesitates, clearing his throat. “I wanted - about yesterday? I - I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Rider asks, tilting her head to the side.

“For my attitude - downstairs. It wasn’t professional and it was rude. I'm sorry.”

Rider blinks in bewilderment. “Oh! That? It’s nothing,” she waves off. “Things get hectic around midday, so I get it. When I worked that position, there were moments I wanted to pull my feathers out,” she crows, mimicking the gesture.

“Really?”

“Well, not really,” she snorts, bobbing her head back and forth. “It was stressful but not that stressful you know? It’s a pretty easy job. But there were days where I thought about it," she explains, grabbing her coffee and preparing to leave.

Spamton’s shoulders droop. “Oh... Oh! Uh - before you go, I -” Rider skids to a stop as if she were a deer caught in headlights. “I was, uh… I mean - I was - since we’re, you know, working together, I was wondering if you’d want to get lunch sometime.”

“Lunch?” She parrots with an apprehensive tone.

“As coworkers,” Spamton clarifies with haste. “It’s, I’ve been - I just - I like to, you know, get to know people when I work with them is all. Makes that transition to being… partners easier. Coworker-partners,” he laughs nervously. “Coworkers working together as coworkers. Coworkers.”

“Oh,” she shrugs. “Uh - sure! Can’t do today though. Meetings meetings n' I normally eat with the girls… But sometime next week! N’ hey - invite Emil too! Guy needs to get out more. Make some friends,” she sneers.

Friends?

“What do you mean?”

“He's a bit of a blueberry. A lot of people eat in the lunch room, places nearby, or outside. But he sits at his desk like an ugly duckling. And he's not," Rider returns with a breathless laugh while blushing. “I mean...” she glances at Spamton in a manner that makes him uncomfortable. “Would be nice to get him out a bit...” she whispers as if lost in a fantasy, her finger gracing her lower lip.

“S-sure,” Spamton obliges, returning a nervous smile. “Well, I guess I’ll let you get to work.”

“Same! Also - if it makes you feel better about yesterday, we should hear sometime before noon what they chose!” Rider informs while peering down in passing, bopping him on the shoulder. “Good luck! Oh! I did remember you being an early bird because there’s a cup left in the pot if you want it!” she snaps her fingers with a click of her tongue and exits.

“Thanks,” Spamton waves. He enters the kitchen and pours the remaining coffee into a paper cup. He peers into it, seeing a wobbly distortion of himself. He shakes his head at the odd exchange while adding some sugar and creamer before heading down to the dungeon.

☎️

tick

tick

tick

Work is slow.

It's always slow.

The email.

Advertising customers almost always respond via email. Or that is, they were copied in the correspondence and would respond within. That said, Spruce’s department and the client managers under him often notified everyone involved.

It's almost noon. The hustle and bustle of upstairs is becoming more appartent, typical for this time of day. It's faint where Spamton resides, but detectable. At present he couldn't hear it. His mind is abuzz with the looming email.

He needs something.

A distraction.

No - purpose.

He needs something to do.

He checks his email again.

Nothing.

He inspects his desk.

There's nothing to clean.

He's made so much origami he's almost out of paper.

Spamton rises, paces about the closet before sitting again. Maybe he should go upstairs. It was almost lunch time. But Rider said he should expect an email before then. He wouldn't miss anyting if he came back and read it right after. Yet the thought of missing it, of engaging people during lunch who already have plans. Both options make him nauseous. Or maybe he's nauseous from lack of food... Maybe -

RING

Spamton snatches the phone.

“Hello?”

“Spamton.”

The hairs on his spine stand on end. “Spruce?”

“Yes,” Spruce confirms with an odd tone. “Calling to see if you could step into my office at noon. It'll be quick.”

“Yes,” Spamton pushes from his clenched throat. “What’s it -”

“Good,” Spruce cuts in. “I’ll see you then.”

click

☎️

tick

tick

tick

It’s a quarter to noon.

Spamton rises as if he were a marionette. The creak of the chair causes his breath to quake as every sound, every sensation heightens to a degree of pain. His movements are weightless yet burdened. Weak yet tense.

His awareness floods in. His very sense of being becomes too much to bare.

He's never been called to Spruce’s office before.

It can mean only one thing…

Spamton makes his way to the stairs and begins the laborious ascent.

As he comes closer to the main office, the sounds of addisons going about their day grows. He keeps his head down, but he can tell from the gaits of some that they’re stopping and maybe staring at him.

It was understandable. He rarely left his station and usually only did so after lunch when few people were out and about. Despite this, he felt an urge to run, to dig into his chest and rip his heart out, the closer he got to his destination.

No.

It’s ok.

It’s going to be ok.

The moment he enters the bullpen, a freight train of sound slams into his ear drums.

Eyes dart about in a panic. A rainbow of addisons move about like a chaotic kaleidoscope as they prepare for lunch. He’s never seen the space so alive. Then again, he’s never taken the time to look. Printer and back, that was his trajectory in this space. But he was unfamiliar with getting to Spruce’s room and the task of it was daunting.

Spamton skitters through the crowd like a maus as pedestrians take little heed. He maintains his gaze close to the ground, peeking up on occasion to ensure he’s heading the right direction.

Finally he arrives.

Spruce

Production Coordinator

A weak knock becomes lost in the midday mayhem. Spamton flattens himself against the wall as someone with a cart almost knocks into him. He yanks at the left side of his shirt as he grits his teeth, knocking the door with such force he spooks himself.

“Come in,” Spruce announces from the other side.

Spamton enters with haste, closing the door behind him.

“H-hello, sir,” Spamton greets with a bow, “you wanted to see me?”

“Yes… uh - this is…” Spruce sighs, clasping his hands and looking down at the table. “It’s a short meeting, no need to sit,” he informs upon seeing Spamton’s approach towards the chair. “As you know, this year’s been busy. Lots of restructuring and changes for - various reasons. Things accounting handles really.” Spruce puffs a nervous laugh, biting the bottom of his lip and clasping his hands. “But that means - unfortunately, we have to be conservative this year...”

Spamton goes limp as the weight of Spruce's speech smother him. Each word presses down harder like a hydraulic press. Each pulse of his heart causes air to escape him; his breathing becomes labored. His hands slick with sweat twitch at the vibrations of sound pricking at his skin. He’s staring straight ahead yet sees nothing as everything eats away his morale until it all goes black. All that remains is the echo of Spruce's condemnation amidst the silence.

“... I know it’s upsetting. Hell, I know Emil will be just as upset…”

Emil.

Spamton’s vision snaps into focus. Color, light, sound - it rushes past him at the speed of light, the strings of their being intertwine once more into a complete image. And with that bang of consciousness he inhales. His spine snaps straight and he steps forward like the hammer of a gun. “Mail.”

Spruce's eyes flutter; taken aback by what's happening. “What?”

“Mail. Put me back on a route.”

“Not my department; you know that, Spamton. You’d have to ask, Tracer. Besides - last I checked that department’s full of tinheads now. You were the only addison I’ve seen who could handle it or even wanted to for that matter.”

Could handle it.

“And I still can,” Spamton warbles through clenched teeth.

Spruce returns Spamton a pitiful look.

“I can, Spruce,” Spamton argues, taking another step forward. “I know those routes like the back of my hand.”

“You're smart, but it’s not about your knowledge, it’s about your ability.”

“And I’m able. Did you ever hear any complaints? No. I work as well as any robot. Better even. You know Tracer. You know -”

“That you can’t. Not anymore.”

Spamton stiffens.

“Tracer... She only spoke well of you - sure; never told me what happened. But I heard. I heard that story you told in the lunch room. How you acted,” Spruce informs with a consternated tone. “Even yesterday, badgering Rider the way you did.”

“What?”

“Look - I know I come off as a hard ass, but this is a business. I gave you a shot because Tracer said you worked hard. And I kept you, despite your failures, because Emil vouched for you too.”

“... Failures?”

“And this job... The stacks I gave you? You couldn't even handle those.”

“What about -”

“They declined.”

Spamton flinches back as Spruce’s words seize him.

“I gave the client to someone else a few days ago in case you couldn't cut it because we were on a deadline, and you didn't.”

Spruce waits to let Spamton speak, but Spamton remains mute.

“I’ll need your card key before you leave… You’ll also receive this week’s check in the mail. If it doesn't show, feel free to stop by any time or call me,” Spruce offers, attempting to hand Spamton his card. But Spamton remains still. Spruce clears his throat, pushing the card to Spamton. He still doesn’t take it. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be, Spamton.”

“I’m not leaving," he whispers.

Spruce furrows his brow.

“I know you don’t like me. That I scare people -”

“Spamton…”

“That you put me in a rundown closet because of it.”

“Hey -” Spruce snarls.

“That you give me crap clients because you didn’t think I could.”

“ Hey -”

“And you’re right,” Spamton’s voice cracks. “I couldn’t. Not now. But that doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Spruce huffs in indignation.

“I belonged in mail, and I don’t belong here - not yet. So put me in the middle,” he demands with conviction. “Put me on commission.”

Spruce leans back, blown away by Spamton’s gumption. “... You know it’s straight commission only, right?”

“Of course, and I also know it’s of no loss to you.”

Spruce scans Spamton as though he’s livestock. “And you think you can handle it. People looking down at you, pitching them junk when they’d rather take a shit? The door slams, pamphlets tossed in your face?”

Spamton lifts his chin as the heat of determination sets his words aflame. “You’ve heard, remember? I’ve been through worse and I’m still here.”

“... Well, like you said, it’s no loss to me,” Spruce submits, opens a drawer, and takes out a card and a pen, writing something on it. “You’ll want to talk to Ace, who’s out on lunch right now, but he’ll be back around one.” Here’s my signature of recommendation, but you won’t need it,” he nods, returning Spamton a long hard stare. “Good luck.”

"Thanks,” Spamton nods, taking the card. “But I won't need it."

“That so?”

“Yea,” Spamton asserts, his ruby eyes locked on Spruce. “I'm an addison.”

Notes:

And as a reminder, and I know this is ironically very spammy and similar to this chapter, I have an Etsy with some Spamton merch! 🧡✨

I lost my job a week ago, so any purchases help! 🤍✨

Chapter 27

A hazy mirage of light flickers in front of Emil. Specks of red burn like embers until the image solidifies. The migraine from yesterday is a subtle throb brought to recollection from his beating heart. He turns to the clock.

1:15pm

Though Emil knows it's fruitless, thick lashes come to a close once more. The gift of sleep eludes him as the medication wanes his awareness takes root.

The bed creaks upon sitting up in agitation. Delicate fingers massage the side of his neck and jaw as he stands, getting out of bed.

There’s a rigidness to his gait. Expected all things considered. On the upside, he no longer aches to the point of immobility.

Feet drag across the carpet with slow, stiff steps until claws click on the wood floor. He stumbles to his right toward the bathroom, turning on the light. A limp moan rumbles through limp lips as his eyesight settles.

Emil inspects his face in the mirror. The bruising is fading.

Despite his disdain for remaining home, Spamton was right. It was wise to remain home. Unlike his resilience towards brutality foisted upon him, stares and gossip were things Emil wasn't numb to. Come Monday, however, the bruising should all but be gone. What remains will be obscured by his cyan hue. Makeup will more than hide the rest.

Fingers glide atop small divots littering his flesh yet hidden within fur-like plumage. Emil switches off the light as he exits the bathroom and enters the living room, trudging toward the kitchen.

Lackadaisical hands rummage through the fridge and take out some leftovers.

He inserts the container into the microwave and warms it up while fetching a glass of water. The microwave beeps and he swivels back around, taking the items to the living room table and sits.

It's rice. He should add more to it but it's not worth the effort. The fact that he can eat is a miracle.

Gummy chewing is all that fills the vacancy of Emil's abode. Bland grains laced with a hint of being overcooked slither down his throat as he swallows. He gags, gulping water to ease it down. The spoon clacks against porcelain until scooping another portion. He pauses. Emil inspects the mound of maggot-like grains with pursed lips. A clack rings through the air as he tosses the spoon into the bowl, rises, then pours the contents into the trash.

Emil walks with a brisk pace back to his bedroom, dresses then grabs a shot glass. He pours half of one drink, then another, and swings it back before sitting on the bench by the door. Lace zips past lace as he ties his shoes, snatches the keys from the key rack, and shuts the door behind him.

☎️

Emil isn’t one for long walks, but his usual method of relief is now absent.

Well, it isn't absent, not entirely.

Diluting drinks to cut back is the smartest and safest choice. Emil knew this even before Spamton mentioned it.

Yet he’s done it before.

Failed before.

He's a kintsugi.

A million shards.

Anything and everything seeps from him.

Broken.

Fragile.

That's what he is.

That's all he ever was.

Was.

He's broken but no longer empty.

He's fragile yet resilient.

Maybe he can be fixed.

Maybe he can feel whole.

But if he can’t…

A gust of air vacates Emil’s agitated chest. He looks around him, his gaze unfocused as he ambles down the street toward town. His mind is abuzz with a million thoughts, each one slips away as he drifts forward. Yet with each effort, each movement - he feels the shift of growing awareness.

Cars passing by. Pedestrians striding alongside or against him. Everyone and everything lost in their worlds with the brief connection of a glance or stare.

What are they looking at? Emil ponders while taking heed of those nearby. What do they see?

Shit.

He didn't put on makeup.

What if...

Emil shakes the thought away and removes his hand obscuring the scar along his jaw. Vertebrae pop as he straightens his posture and peers into the adjacent shops.

There’s not much of interest. Most are antique shops with wares he’s seen many times before in passing. Yet their familiarity brings comfort and reassurance.

He pushes forward. A curt, curious peep in windows here and there are all he makes until coming across a shop he'd not entered before.

It's an antique clock shop.

He leans forward as though magnetized to it. Before he knows it, his hand is turning the knob.

A small bell rings as he steps inside. Wood creaks beneath his feet. The familiar scent of age and longevity seep from the planks into the air.

“Hello, young man!” Greets an automaton, his head swiveling from around the beam sporting a long aichi clock. The automaton is as ancient as his wares and looks somewhat like a Lilliput. Large gears are visible through his chest. Tin reveals itself underneath a cracked layer of paint, the hue of which is muted due to age. “Searching for anything in particular?”

“No,” Emil responds. “Looking around is all.”

“Well, if you need anything, call my name! Mr. Furiko, but people call me ‘Furi’.”

“Will do, Mr. Furiko - er, Furi,” Emil complies with a bow while starting to peruse.

The clocks are well worn as expected. Most are plain in design, made of cedar or cypress while others are more intricate. The most detailed ones contain illustrations carved in wood or with inlaid pearl. In either case, a myriad of animals and fantastical creatures decorate their facades, along with temples and forests.

Emil smiles, enamored by the artistry until coming across a clock so bizarre he can’t help but catch his breath.

It contains three levels, each one hexagonal with a dome encasing the top. Inside the dome is a horizontal clock with two crossed metal bands above it. Each face of the columns below contains its own clock encased in glass. A column extends from each hexagonal edge. Detailed engravings of tengus express intimate, almost macabre expressions.

“Like what you see?” Furiko pries.

“Oh,” Emil startles. “Yes. What kind of clock is this? I’ve never seen it before.”

“That!” Furiko perks up with interest. Gears and mechanisms rattle in his core as he bumbles forth. “That is a mannen jimeishou, also known as a ten-thousand-year clock! Extremely rare. Only a few dozen exist!”

“Why’s that?”

“ Many have tried copying their intricate designs and inner workings, but none have surpassed the originator’s. That’s why,” Furiko explains with a wink.

“Interesting…” Emil murmurs, leaning in to further inspect. The sound of tin scraping against tin causes him to turn around. Furiko’s grinning with a form of kindness Emil’s never seen from such an archaic android.

“Your kind look a lot like those creatures there,” Furiko notes, pointing to a column.

“Tengu?”

“Yes,” Furiko confirms as Emil swivels his head, analysing one tengy in particular.

“There’s so many. It’s amazing how much detail’s here.”

“Yes. But what’s truly amazing is the story they tell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, look here, these columns and inlaid sides depict a troubled tengu.” Emil shoots a look at Furiko as though that wasn’t obvious. Sensing this, Furiko elaborates. “You see, tengus have had many meanings through history. In some eras, many believed them to be spiritual guides working alongside mountain priests. In others, malicious spirits intending to deceive. To make one lose their way in their travels. In one writing, the one I prefer, they’re neither good nor bad, but become so from their actions. Tengu are born from light, but can plunge into darkness. They can become corrupted.”

Corrupted.

Emil furrows his brow.

“See these footprints here?” Furiko asks, now pointing to the face depicting the tengu ascending a hill.

“Yes,” Emil nods, leaning forward again.

“Those prints are like the hands of a clock. They’re a record of time that erodes, yet their presence remains in other ways. Trampled grass and disturbed ground? Those are signs of his passing. A sign of where he once was and proceeding towards.”

Emil turns around.

“The act of travel hardens the soul as much as the path you take. This particular tengu, he is troubled, for you see - he's taken a dark path and has become lost,” Furiko explains, pointing to another panel. “In his despair, he turns to malevolence, desperate and spiteful. Luring lost souls into the thicket perhaps to ease his shame or find comfort in his isolation. But in this panel, a priest consoles him, putting the tengu's soul at ease, and guiding him to the light. In the original tale, it's a barter of faith and trust. The hope that neither will corrupt the other. There will always be dark and light. It will always be cyclical like time itself. But accepting guidance and having faith in those dark times allows one to take flight once more when there's light,” Furiko grins.

“Hmm…” Emil murmurs. “Shame he never flew in the first place. You’d think he would since he has wings.”

“Sometimes we forget we have them,” Furiko smiles. “Well - I’ve babbled long enough! If you need anything, I’ll be that way,” he points with a creak of his arm. “And even if you don’t buy anything, it was nice to talk! For me, talking is better than the purchase of a clock,” he bows, taking his leave.

“Thank you,” Emil responds wiping the side of his face, staring at his foggy reflection in the warped glass before him.

☎️

The scent of sandalwood greets Emil as he enters the main hall within his complex. He opens the door to his unit and enters.

He’s tired, but it’s a good tired. For one reason or another, he feels calm. Hopeful even. Hopeful of what, he's not sure, and he doesn't pry further. These feelings which have long eluded him are welcome regardless of why.

The year has been more than rough. It's been utter hell. No different from the last…

But he won’t repeat that.

He’ll take a different path.

Keys clack as he sets them on the key mount before slipping off his shoes and he takes a bag in his right hand and sets it on the dining table.

He yawns, making his towards the kitchen. The wood creaks as he opens the alcohol cabinet and takes out a small glass. The faint hiss of bubbles and the smell of alcohol lingers as he makes another diluted cocktail. He begins to swing it back, but stops - and instead, takes a sip.

To his surprise, he feels satiated.

"Hmm," he smiles, peering into the still-full glass. A soft laugh bubbles from his core as he sets the remaining drink on a coaster. His feet pace absently until he turns to his left. His smile drops. Violet-blue eyes glance at the drink atop the coaster, then snap back. He steps forward. Then again - and again.

Wood creaks beneath the weight of Emil’s approach. He sits, placing feeble hands on the keyboard and his feet on the pedals.

A solemn note rattles the air, causing Emil to tense. He presses another. Then another until sporadic sounds breathe to life a marvelous melody.

Emil closes his eyes, letting the music carry him to a place he’d long forgotten. A sound he’d long been numb to. Each note caresses him with such warmth he succumbs to it as if lulled into a trance. And for the first time in a long time, he feels what it means to be.

knock

knock

knock

Chords of chaos sour the air as fingers slam to a halt.

knock

knock

knock

knock

knock

He isn't expecting anyone…

Wait - Spamton said he might stop by if he finished cleaning early. He looks at the clock. It’s a little past seven.

Emil gets up, rubbing his lower back with his hands, and opens the door.

Notes:

Long time no see from me!

Despite this chapter being done at the same time as chapter 26, life dealt me a bad hand. But the worst of it's over now.

We're in the home stretch now. Maybe two to four more chapters to go. ✨

As a reminder, this fic is going through some minor cleanup of prior chapters to ensure everything hooks up as intended for consistency reasons. So if you see any changes, they should be minor and that's why.

Thanks to all who've stayed and continue to leave comments and kudos! 🤍

Chapter 28

Emil grits his teeth. Sensation seeps from aching hands as every sinew flexes, scraping against tender flesh braced atop the door with all his might. “How did you find me?” he whispers with a warble.

“Remember that time you were too drunk to call a taxi like - uh… A while ago? Well… You slurred your address a couple of times. I, ever the gentleman, drove you home. Then you puked on my leather jacket and offered to wash it off in the laundry room since you were too trashed to make it upstairs. Which - helped with that too.”

A dull fog begins to subdue Emil, but his weight shifts as Trigger applies more force against the frame, snapping him back to reality.

“Leave…”

“Hey -”

“I said leave.”

“I just wanna’ talk.”

“I don’t.”

“I do.”

“I said -”

“Look…” Trigger continues with a level of calm Emil has never experienced before. “About what happened…” Emil slams his entire weight against the door, desperate to make it budge, yet it remains. Trigger returns Emil a look of pity through the thin opening at the failed attempt. “C’mon, Em… You’re a bottom for a reason.”

“Don’t call me that…” Emil snarls, feathers raising along his spine.

“Ok…” Trigger sighs. “Look - you’re gonna’ get tired. It’s easier if you let me in.”

“No,” Emil growls.

Trigger chuffs with an air of agitation. “It won’t be long. I have plans.”

“Then do them,” Emil commands. Trigger grins, starting to interject, but Emil continues. “I’ll call the cops.”

The corner of Trigger’s mouth twitches. “For what?”

“Trespassing.”

“... Really?” Trigger cocks his head to the side. “How’s that -”

“The cameras,” Emil gestures with a swipe of his head. “They’ll -”

“See, I’m standing here having a conversation? Nothing illegal about that. Especially since you don’t have a restraining -”

“I’ll call. I’ll call and - request…” Emil winces in pain, resisting the urge to clasp his throat. “Request tapes from -”

“The garage?” Trigger asks, nonplussed. “Emil… Those tapes are long gone. That was - huh… How many days ago was that...”

“No -” Emil shakes his head. “They have them. They -”

“Erase them after forty-eight hours.”

A sharp exhale sprints through frantic lungs, vanishing into the still. Emil leans back. His hand slackens and Trigger, feeling the give, slightly opens the door.

“You see - the thing about security systems is they’re only as good as the money you throw at ‘em,” Trigger sneers. “Tapes are bulky - expensive… Archiving takes a lot of space and time. Besides, Banner only owns the upper floors for now, that is until - ether way…” Trigger shakes his head. “The security systems are shit and they often need a lot of help fixing things down there,” Trigger notes with a strange punctuation. “Unless you requested a copy within that time - it’s gone,” he elaborates, making a poof gesture with his free hand. “So it’s my word against nothing.”

Emil shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re lying…” he murmurs, as Trigger steps forward. “You -”

“Am a cinematographer with twenty-four-hour access to that building,” Trigger boasts albeit with a bored tone. “Why else would I be here?”

Emil goes slack, retreating into the living room as Trigger enters, who closes the door with care.

“Hmm - don’t remember all the pink… But it suits you. Kinda’ nice. Even if I feel like I’m sitting in a waiting room…” he nods his head in approval while touching the top of the kitchen table. “What were you playing earlier?” he asks, pressing a key. “Sounded smooth. Then again, your hands were always -”

“What did you want to talk about…”

Trigger turns to Emil with a queer look, clacking a few sour notes before turning to him in full. “Pops told me what happened that night. What I did.” He scratches his jaw. “Don’t remember it, but I - wanted to clear up some things. Resolve it.”

“No. You talked - now leave,” Emil murmurs, his gaze downcast.

“... Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes,” Emil swallows. “Now leave.”

Trigger places his hands in his pockets. “I know you hate me right now, but -”

“If you think I’m going to be your friend - if I’m - if I’ll forgive you? I won’t. Ever.”

“Over a scuffle?”

“It wasn’t a scuffle…” Emil growls, his body starting to quake.

Trigger’s eyes remain locked on Emil. He licks his lips slowly before exhaling. “What happened that night…”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you did to me.”

Trigger returns Emil a stoic expression. “If you want me to say I roughed you up, then yea - I roughed you up. But -”

“You beat me…” Emil voice breaks as he hyperventilates. “You slammed me against my car. You choked me. You -” he seizes as what feels like needles prick through his entire being.

Trigger leans forward. “What?”

Emil shakes his head, striving not to falter.

Trigger remains quiet for a minute or two. When he speaks, his tone is reserved, somber, regretful. “I was drunk... It got out of hand, and I’m -”

Emil shakes his head with disgust. “You…” Emil points at Trigger, his hand shaking, every fiber of his being straining to their limit.“Nothing got out of hand… Not even you. Because that’s who you are…”

Trigger casts his eyes to the side, pursing his lips with restraint as a tendon in his neck flexes. “You’re right. I’m me,” he acknowledges with a strange tone. “And who are you?”

Emil furrows his brow.

Trigger steps forward, and Emil steps back. “Who are you, Emil?”

“Don’t change the subject…”

“I’m not. I agree with you. Now answer my question… Who are you?”

“I know who I am and I don’t care who you think I am…”

“No - I don’t think you do… And you do care, Em. You care a lot.”

“Get out.”

“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Trigger continues. “I’m a hothead, a tramp… A verbally belligerent asshole. True… But most of all, I’m honest. And I know who you are, Em,” he asserts with a serene expression, his eyes honed in. “I remember when I met you at that corporate shindig. I thought - ‘wow… Why’s this guy who - ten out of ten I’ll admit - why is he sitting here like a sad sack of shit? That distant look, that desperation barely masked by that drink in his hands. All those empty glasses…”

“I said get out,” Emil cuts in, his voice cracking.

“I thought at first, ‘maybe he’s having a bad quarter and this is his last hurrah before demotion.’ Not uncommon. Then we talked, and it was like a light turned on in those dead eyes of yours. You beamed as if I swept you off your feet. It’s that kind of light that - you look too long at it - makes you blind…”

“Do I have to call someone?” Emil threatens.

“I don’t know,” Trigger continues without missing a beat. “Do you?” He waits a moment more, but when Emil casts his gaze aside, he continues. “The bar? In private? You’re like oil and water.” Trigger raises his index finger and tilts his head, deep in contemplation, before turning to Emil. “No… You’re like dirt. When it rains, you wash away, and when it’s sunny, you crumble. Pops said you pushed me back - something of that nature… That I grabbed you.” Trigger furrows his brow as if sifting through a fog. “That when I did, you just - froze. He said that.”

Emil snarls while charging forward, the heat of his tongue nocked to strike, but before he knows it, Trigger’s but a breath’s kiss away from him. A choked whimper thrattles his aching chest as he buckles from the awareness of their proximity. A soft chuckle tickles his flesh, causing him to wince in revulsion.

“Wow. I didn’t even move.”

Emil flinches back, closing his eyes. He remains still as a fawn while Trigger looms over him like a ravenous fox.

Thick cyan lashes clasp shut.

The sound of a door closing.

The sight of Spamton standing up to the goliath that is Trigger.

Something in Emil shifts like the pendulum of a clock. He opens his eyes. “You’re right…” he whispers.

“Hmm?” Trigger asks with a mocking raise of his brow.

“You’re right…” Emil says with more conviction. “I’m like dirt... That’s why you like me,” he continues as Trigger smirks. “Because you are too.”

Trigger’s smirk vanishes.

“You’re the one who pressed against my door, begging me to let you in. Still here even though I’ve told you to leave. If I'm dirt, why are you here?”

Trigger lowers his head with a glower as he approaches. Emil bumps into the table, bracing his weight upon it as Trigger learns forward, pressing down when a ringing sound fills the air. He flinches, then pauses, turning to the bag atop the table.

“What?” Emil swallows, his hands tremble atop the table. “Scared?”

Trigger’s attention snaps back onto Emil. His tongue rakes his lower teeth as though whetting his tongue, when suddenly he leans back. “No. Just remembered I’ve got places to be. Don’t want to keep him waiting.” Golden eyes scan Emil with disdain. “Or dirty myself.”

A weak chuff from Emil makes Trigger scowl. “For the longest time, I’ve - I’ve followed others. Lost in a fog of my misery. Snared in deadfalls I created. You’re right; I was desperate. So I let you guide me.” Emil presses against the table, rising a hair, causing Trigger to step back. “I let you guide me. Guide me further off a path I strayed from. Down a slope where I fell for you. Wallowing in the same filth. Sinking into the same misery. Desperate to fill that empty pit in our core. But unlike you, I hate myself enough to change that…” Emil declares with conviction, rising in full, holding his head high. “Unlike you, I can walk away.”

A strange expression ignites within Trigger’s cold stare. “That’ll never happen... You can’t help it, Em. You’re afraid to be alone with yourself. I know you’re thinking, ‘you’re never alone.’” Trigger gestures to himself with a stiff smile. “Yea - I’m not. But I don’t have to beg someone to call me. Beg someone to listen. Beg some malformed maggot in a basement to go with me to a bar because I’m afraid of myself. Because I hate myself that much. You pretend to be this nice guy because any hint of people seeing who you really are terrifies you. Being alone with yourself disgusts you. It’s why you haven’t kicked me out. It’s why you’re talkin’ to me like some pious prick at the pulpit. You’re spewing this bile because you’ve got a new plaything, pathetic as it is. I’ve seen those cracks before… Yea -” Trigger points with an alert nod to Emil’s contempt corroding his composure. “That. Eventually, you’ll slip up. Become a bit too needy, a bit too emotional. Spamton’s a loser, but even he’ll wise up when you do. I’m a loose dog, but there’s a reason I kept you on a leash.”

“Get out.”

“Oh…” Trigger laughs. “Here we go a -”

“Get out!” Emil barks, thrusting Trigger back with all his might. Trigger stumbles, catching himself against a wall. “Out!” Emil bellows again, his voice cracking and hushing to a whisper. Trigger hops back, his eyes locked on the pool of glass and alcohol glistening on the top of his boots. For once, a hint of fear lingers in Trigger’s furrowed brow.

Before Emil can make a third demand, the door slams shut.

The heat of it all dulls. His awareness hardens.

Liquid runs down the face of the door onto the mat below. A trembling hand runs down the side of Emil's face and rests on his mouth as he shuffles erratically.

He walks with a stilted, brisk gait to the kitchen, grabbing a rag. Alcohol slushes about with glass shards as he wipes the mess on the hardwood, then picks up the mat, tossing both into the trash.

A trembling hand reaches for the dustpan, dropping it. A muffled metallic sound makes him grimace. He reaches for it again, returning to the remaining mess.

Shards of glass glisten, emitting a dull chime as they’re swept up. He rises to toss them when a sliver falls with a dull thud.

He kneels, picking up a sliver, inspecting the edges. It’s concave and thin as a knife’s edge. The rim of it glistens like a dagger.

Short breaths sprint from his throbbing chest and fade as he observes his thumb, treading ever closer to the blade-like precipice. He goes limp as though in a trance.

A ruby bead blooms from a vertical slit atop cyan flesh.

A soft thud sounds in the still as the shard falls to the ground, spilling with it residue alcohol and blood as Emil rises, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him.

Chapter 29

Summary:

Oh - this is it... The BIG ONE aka "payoff for 28 chapters of slowburn".

Emil is straight-laced. Never one to go against the rules. Not even to run a red light at least - not to his recollection. Not on purpose. Yet here he is, panting profusely for fear of being caught for his crime of doing just that.

Crazy.

You’re fucking crazy.

A dull pain radiates through his thumb gripping the steering wheel. His tongue rakes against jagged teeth in a desperate bid to redirect his mind.

He knows it too.

That’s why he didn’t show.

“No,” Emil snaps in agitation, wiping his eyes and mouth as he turns right.

You are.

Why else are you doing this?

Emil presses play on the cassette player. The sound of violins slashes against aching eardrums. He turns it off, opting instead for the radio. Songs blurt into being before vanishing as he fumbles with the knob, turning the radio off as well.

Vibrant lights and signs of a bustling city soon give way to stagnation and decay. Few signs of life are present. Even the trees and grass become absent as he persists down the beaten path, made evident by the rougher ride. A minute or two passes, and then - he stops.

Unsurprisingly, there’s ample parking. Ragged cars and delapidated scooters litter the sidewalk. Emil parks in front of Spamton’s building. He scarcely checks to see if his door’s locked before running to the stoop.

Twenty minutes or so pass until someone exits. A mild hint of curiosity flickers within the hollow sockets of the passing pedestrian as Emil scurries into the lobby and up the stairs.

Feet slap against worn tile as he ascends with urgency until reaching the hallway of interest.

A strange amount of light emits from Spamton’s door.

Emil approaches with vigilance, his breath hitches in trepidation as the door looms but a few inches from him. He forms a fist, preparing to knock, until noticing the light isn't coming from the bottom, but the sides…

“Spamton?” Emil glimpses through the sliver.

Silence.

“Spamton?” he calls out again.

Silence.

Emil gulps as he grabs the door’s knob and enters.

☎️

Several weeks have passed since Emil stumbled in a stupor into Spamton’s abode. Little if anything beyond the color of this room remains in his recollection. Yet so much feels - wrong…

Various items, such as mail and office materials, and what appear to be pages from books, litter the ground. Emil follows their incoherent pattern as if in a trance. Violet-blue eyes dart about, trying to make sense of the destruction when they land on Spamton.

Spamton’s sitting on a tattered foldout bed in a hunched position, seemingly unaware of Emil’s presence.

“Spamton,” Emil calls out in distress. “What…” hands gesture with erratic movements, with confusion and concern. “What’s -”

“Hey,” Spamton murmurs with a monotone voice, his stance unwavering. “Why are you here?”

“You were supposed to come over today. You didn’t show. You didn’t pick up the phone. You - I was worried about you.” Silence. “I’m still worried about you.” Spamton’s still a stone. “What’s going on? Why’s everything -”

“Are you hungry?” Spamton gulps. A seam in his brow is all that shifts in his expression.

Emil shakes his head in utter bafflement. “What?”

“I don’t have much… There's noodles... And spam…” Spamton rises without warning, making his way to the kitchen upon Emil’s approach.

“Hey,” Emil presses, following Spamton and almost tripping on something. He grabs Spamton’s shoulder but retracts upon feeling him seize.

Spamton remains this way for a second or two before melting like wax. Broad shoulders slump, and his head bows forward. “Please don’t touch me,” he begs, his attention downcast with ruby eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t feel so good.”

A pained exhale sprints from labored lungs. “Are you sick?” Emil whispers, his voice still hoarse from the evening’s events.

Spamton shuffles into the kitchen, opening his rickety fridge and taking out some items. Emil watches helplessly as Spamton cooks a packet of noodles in the microwave. Once done, he pours some meager contents into the soup. Plastic clinks against plastic as he sets the bowl on a tray and pours a glass of water.

He grabs the tray and makes way for the couch. Paper crunches under his feet. Various items roll about as he trudges forward. Origami and a set of keys fall on the ground as a petite white hand pushes them aside, setting the tray on the nightstand.

“What’s going on, Spamton?”

Spamton’s eyes tick to the left. There’s a subtle twitch in his hand. “I need to take a shower.”

“No,” Emil denies frantically. “You need to tell me what’s -”

“Please,” Spamton repeats, almost on the verge of tears.

Emil opens his mouth.

You're making it worse.

“... Ok,” Emil relents. “I -”

Stop.

Emil watches as Spamton shuffles off into the bathroom. The urge to follow like a lost pup nips then bites at Emil’s heels.

Don’t.

Emil clenches his teeth.

He’ll hate you.

A small whine scrapes through the gaps of his grimace.

He’ll hate you.

Distraction.

He needs a distraction.

Emil digs his forefinger into the cut of his thumb. He moans in pain as he maintains the pressure until the sensation of it numbs him.

After a few minutes, he opens his eyes, turning his attention to the food on the nightstand. The steam’s almost gone.

He takes a bite and sips some of the broth. To his surprise, it’s not that bad.

Not that bad.

You don't deserve this.

You don't deserve him.

Him.

Emil turns to the bathroom.

He’s still in there.

A hard lump scrapes at his throat. Emil gulps, grabbing the remote and increasing the volume on the TV a little. A sitcom is on. He turns to sit on the bed when the crumpling of paper underneath his foot catches his attention.

Emil kicks off his shoes, setting them by the door, and returns to the bed’s side. He picks up the pieces of paper in his proximity, sits down, and skims their contents.

... Frequent check-ins during the early stage are most important. Partners with ptsd or who’ve endured trauma often react negatively to trauma-specific stimuli. Knowing what they react to, why, and how to deal with it allows for management and growth for both involved. Open communication and boundaries not only show respect to your loved one, but respect for the relationship as a whole…

Emil furrows his brow, then proceeds to skim another sheet.

... If you believe you can or can't, you're right. Your mindset matters. Be your best friend. Start and end your day with a positive affirmation. Connect with uplifting people. Reflect on your strengths while working on your weaknesses. Say positive observations in a mirror to build confidence, and don’t forget... Share appreciation with those who count! A little good goes a long way…

There are more pages on the ground, but they’re too ripped to gather anything from.

Violet-blue eyes scour the ground, seeking the pages' origins. Finally, Emil locates some books, two of which reside under the bed. He picks them up and inspects them.

There are call numbers on the spines. Emil licks his lips, reading their covers.

Friends of a Feather: An Addison’s Guide to Affinity
Come As You Are: Homosexual Courtship and The Act of Love
First Flight: The Migration to Self Improvement

Emil goes slack, wiping his eyes when the sound of water stopping sends him into a panic. He shoves the pieces of paper in a book and sets them on the underside of the nightstand. He stares at the door as the sound of a blow dryer runs for a minute or two, then stops. As the knob turns, Emil looks at the ground, then the door, then back to the ground.

He can hear Spamton step out, then pause.

“Sorry, I messed with the TV,” Emil whispers. “I -” he stops himself and peeks over his shoulder. Spamton, his gaze downcast, lowers his head even more likely hearing Emil shift his weight atop the bed. He tosses his clothes in the hamper and goes to his dresser, rummaging through its contents. When it sounds as though Spamton’s clothed, Emil turns in full.

Spamton stands in stark contrast to the dreary room. His body is framed by the eerie hue emanating from the TV. Adorning his petite, wilted form is a worn beater and briefs. He swallows, rubbing his fingers against one another for a few seconds before picking at his shirt. “Did you eat?”

“A little,” Emil replies. “It was good,” he adds for reassurance. “I’m just not that hungry.”

Spamton’s typical titters and antsy remarks are absent. He exhales as if approaching a scaffold and sits beside Emil. Lips part as if murmuring something and remain that way until they purse, and he furrows his brow. “I quit.”

Emil goes cold. “What?”

“Friday,” Spamton clarifies.

“What do you... Quit what?”

“Work.”

The numb chill gives way to panicked heat. “What - why? What happened?”

“Spruce talked to me. Said how bad I was doing. That there was a misunderstanding with Rider.”

Emil leans forward. “Rider?”

“I was packing to leave after lunch, so no one saw me,” his voice breaks. “She stopped me. Talked to Spruce. Said it was a misunderstanding. Not to let me go.”

“Misunderstanding? Over what?”

“I was upset. It doesn’t matter.”

“But -”

“Then I quit.”

They sit in silence until Emil can’t take it anymore. “I don’t understand… They wanted to keep you.”

Spamton shakes his head. “They didn’t.”

“You just -”

“I told Rider about me. About us. Not all of it. Only what she needed to know. She was only being nice because she felt bad." Spamton swallows. “I don’t want her ruining her reputation for me.” He pauses. “Or you.”

“She’s not. I’m not. I -” Emil rests his hand on his forehead, pricking his tongue on his lower canine. “I’m calling Spruce tomorrow.”

“Emil -”

“No. I’m calling him. You had a bad day. That’s it. He’ll understand if I -”

“He understands enough. I’m worthless.”

“No,” Emil denies with a snappy tone. “No. You’re not.”

“I’m worthless.” Claws prick Spamton’s chest as he thrusts his fingers against it with an agitated redeclaration.

“Stop. Stop it. You’re not -”

“I’m worthless!” Spamton shouts, his hands shaking. He clasps his knees, curling in on himself. “… Emil, be honest,” he demands, looking toward Emil with a downcast gaze. “Pretend I’m the nobody I am.”

“Stop saying -”

“Would you fire me?”

What feels like a hand clenches Emil’s throat. “... I don’t have that authority,” he whispers.

Ruby eyes slice upwards, piercing Emil with such intensity that he leans back. “Pretend you do. Would you fire me?”

“Spamton, I'm not -”

“If you love me - be honest,” Spamton begs, his bottom lip quivering. “Please.”

Emil stares at Spamton long and hard. What feels like needles prick at the back of his eyes. “... Yes.”

A subtle, pained smile twitches onto Spamton like a dying flame. He returns his attention to his feet with a vacant look. His body goes slack, like a rag doll.

Emil blinks away unshed tears and clears his throat. “You’re not worthless…” Sullen eyes shift about the room until he notices something underneath his feet. He picks it up.

It’s a brochure. A yellow addison with a cheery smile is promoting door-to-door sales.

He's seen this before...

“Who gave this to you?” Emil prods.

“Spruce.”

Emil sits up. “He put you on direct sales?”

“I asked.”

“Why didn't you say - that’s good, Spamton,” Emil sighs in relief. Spamton shakes his head. “... What?”

“I can’t make ads.”

Emil knits his brow.

What does he mean?

Every addison can.

Emil licks his lips, choosing his words with precision. “I remember having a hard time with that too. I worked in sales before getting into music production. It’s how I was -” thick lashes blink rapidly. He swipes back his bangs. “I wasn’t the best at it. ‘Too meek,’ I was told. Did ok in a local piano store. That’s where I made them sometimes,” he smiles, rubbing the side of his face. “I remember getting so nervous that they’d sputter in and out of -”

“I can’t make them,” Spamton cuts in.

Emil scrutinizes Spamton with utter bewilderment. “I know you’ve only worked mail -”

“I can’t make them - physically” Spamton explains. “At all.” Aware of Emil’s confusion, Spamton demonstrates. A flickering light forms in front of him. It’s a pop-up ad, at least an attempt at one. After a few more flickers, a window stabilizes.

The image.

It’s corrupted.

In fact, Emil can’t make out anything.

Spamton, to Emil’s surprise, appears nonplussed.

“I went to the doctor about it several times a while ago. Several doctors. They said they’d never seen anything like this, but they couldn’t find anything wrong. I tried to learn. To figure out what I was doing wrong.” Spamton looks at his hand, makes a fist, then opens it. “Sometimes I can make - something. Then I freeze. And it...” he gestures at the pop-up with his hand in defeat. “Even babies can do it… There’s nothing to reassure me about, Emil. Nothing… That’s why I became a mailman.”

Emil’s at a loss for words. He sits there, mind racing yet vacant at the same time.

What does he do?

What does he say?

“... You don’t need to make ads to be a salesman.”

“Every addison who’s a salesman makes ads, Emil…”

He’s not wrong.

Emil scrapes his tongue against his teeth. “Not all of them. When I sold pianos, I played more than I made ads. That made more sales than anything and I barely had to talk.”

“That’s because you can play piano…” Spamton scoffs. “I couldn’t even get a job as a bellhop because I had to advertise the hotel… The manager - he said I looked wrong...” Spamton seethes, wrapping his arms around one another and resting them on his knees.

Emil frowns. “He’s an idiot. All of them.”

“They’re right.”

“No - they aren’t. You can do this,” Emil reassures, attempting to hand Spamton the pamphlet. Spamton doesn’t budge.

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Look… I know what it’s -”

“Don’t…” Spamton snarls. “It's easy for you to say, Emil. So easy. You’re normal. You’re talented. You can drop everything and go back to that. You can do anything.”

Emil frowns. “I can’t.”

“Whatever…”

“I can’t Spamton,” Emil declares with a pained tone.

“Yea?” Spamton turns around with a sarcastic cock of his head. “Tell me then.”

“Because -”

“Tell me why you can’t walk into a store and -”

“My voice,” Emil gestures to his throat, his voice cracking. “I don’t have the voice for it. Not anymore…”

Emil’s words strike Spamton. Surprise and shame bleed onto his face. He hangs his head in shame in his hand. “Fuck…”

“It’s ok.”

Spamton shakes his head. “I’m sorry…” He covers his mouth. “Fuck…”

Emil reaches for Spamton’s shoulder, then hesitates as Spamton curls in on himself as if trying to disappear. He sighs, resting his hand atop Spamton's broad shoulder. Spamton flinches but soon gives in to the gentle motions of Emil’s caress.

“I don’t deserve you…”

Emil stops. He opens his mouth to chastise Spamton for such a thought, but abstains. Instead, he turns his attention to the pages scattered about the floor. “I don’t deserve you either,” he chuffs. “Two negatives make a positive, so... It means we do.” Emil stares at the stack of books underneath the nightstand. “I’ve never had a boyfriend, actually - want to be better. Try to be better. Be better than when I met him.” He swallows. “That's why I know you don't need to make ads to be a salesman.”

“I can't even get my spam mail approved or anyone to click...”

“Making sales in computer ads is harder than doing it in person.”

Spamton turns to Emil. “How so?”

“Well, first thing is, people can see you and the product you're trying to sell. I've always been a bit shy,” Emil titters. “Thankfully, playing piano meant I didn't have to say much. I'd greet customers, then give them specs of the model I was standing by. Then I'd ask them to make a request and play what they suggested. That way I’d let the piano sell itself.”

“Even if I get a stand with some products like this brochure says, I’d be nothing but a freak show,” Spamton laments. “People would rather gawk at the deformed, blind freak with a skin disorder than buy a bento box, or - shoes... As if they’d even look down…”

Torrential indignation rises within Emil.

They want to stare? Let them.” Emil bombasts. His voice cracks, but he remains steadfast; speaking with determination he thought was spent. “And when they do - greet them. Surprise them - joke about it. If it opens the door to talk about what you're selling, do it.” Emil grips Spamton’s shoulder. “Let them remember who you are - what you are.”

Spamton flushes red in embarrassment. He pushes up his glasses, keeping his gaze downcast. “I don’t -” he shakes his head. “I’ve never - I don’t know how to do that. I couldn’t sell a plate of gold if my life depended on it. I’ve never done it. I’ve never landed a sale, Emil…”

“You have.”

Spamton leans back with a skeptical look, scanning Emil with disbelief. “What?”

Tell him.

Emil swallows.

Tell him.

“You.”

Spamton blinks in astonishment, but doesn’t utter a word.

A familiar sensation blooms in Emil’s core. He swallows, striving to temper himself. To be the man Spamton believes him to be. “That night in the office… I was so scared of what I’d done to you. So hateful of myself… Terrified of wanting to be with another man again. To love again…” Emil wrings his hands together, wincing as his he scrapes past his injured thumb. “Then you talked to me. Laid it all out on the table. How scared you were too. How much you wanted this. And then - before then…” Emil exhales, his composure teetering on the edge. “... The phone call.”

Emil looks up. Spamton stares at him intensely. Ruby eyes fixate upon Emil, surrounded by a field of red blooming upon his face. He’s tense in more ways than one. He turns away, covering his lap. But this only titillates Emil more.

This man sits before Emil as though he's composed of marble. His form is pristine. Sensual to the eyes in a way that is unique to him and only him. How can Emil not be aroused at such a sight?

“You got me to admit things that I never told anyone. Got me to - do things I never would’ve considered with you as your boss.” A flash of heat bursts upward before plummeting deep between his legs. He strains to remain focused. But he can’t. “And I bought it…” He swallows, licking his lips, his breathing rapidly deteriorating. “And here I am,” he opens his mouth, hesitating. But he can’t. Not anymore. “Here I am wanting more.”

Spamton’s breathing escalates. Petite hands clench the edge of the bed as his mouth falls agape and his eyes dart about in a frantic frenzy.

It's clear to Emil that Spamton’s at a crossroads. One wrong word will send him into a panic. But Emil's done holding back. He straightens his posture, retaining his gaze upon Spamton.

“So I gotta’ ask… What’s for sale today?”

Spamton’s lip quivers.

Emil tenses in apprehension.

Shit…

“Take off your clothes.”

Emil catches his breath. “Yea?”

Spamton returns a subtle, swift nod.

Fingers fidget and fumble as Emil strains to move with intent instead of carnal desire. The urge to rip off his shirt is so intense that he all but claws himself in the process, until he gives up at the last few buttons, ripping his shirt open.

“Keep your shirt on,” Spamton commands. “Just your shirt.”

Emil does as told while shimmying his pants down, kicking them and his socks off to the side with one swift move.

Spamton flinches as the sound of Emil's belt landing on the carpet. Emil can only surmise that it's because that sounds means there's no going back. And Emil would be lying if he said he isn't scared as well.

Emil sits there staring at Spamton.

Are they doing this?

Are they really doing this?

He waits for Spamton to say something, anything, but he doesn’t. The lack of action from Spamton causes a sharp pain to fractalize in Emil’s chest.

What if he’s nervous?

What if he doesn’t want to?

What if he doesn’t want you?

Fear bites at Emil’s nerves. He puts his hand on Spamton’s thigh.

“Lie down,” Spamton commands, his eyes still fixed to the floor below.

The sharpness of Spamton’s demand makes Emil wince in both anxiety and anticipation. He does as told.

Emil has only been with two other addisons. Alcohol was his blindfold in both relationships in moments such as this. But he’s sober right now. All too aware of his relation to Spamton and the space between them. His heart thrashes against its confines, causing his chest to ache.

“Close your eyes,” Spamton murmurs. “I’m not going to do anything weird. I’m just -”

“Got it,” Emil reassures, doing as told.

The bed creaks as Spamton rises, presumably removing his briefs, then creaks again as he sits.

Emil clenches the sheets upon sensing Spamton’s approach. He’s close. Very close. He licks his lips, swallowing in anticipation.

“If I do anything weird, tell me,” Spamton requests, almost with a pleading tone.

“Ok,” Emil says breathlessly with a brisk nod.

Spamton approaches Emil from the side and climbs on top, straddling him. Emil, tense from their proximity, soon relaxes as the warmth of Spamton’s body envelops him.

Spamton did take off his briefs. And he's wet, very wet. So wet the moisture seeps through the layer of fur-like feathers on Emil’s chest. The feeling of it sends a strong need down to the core of his groin. Emil gulps, attempting to let Spamton maintain control. But the need for relief turns from anticipation to pain.

He needs this.

He needs it now.

“What are you going to do to me?” Emil attempts to ask with a hint of pleasure, but he sounds more like an unsure yet willing captive. Which, in a way, he is.

“You showed up on a - on a bad note.” Spamton swallows. “I’m making sure we end on a good one.”

At that moment, Spamton leans down close to Emil’s neck. The warmth of his breath sends a rush of heat through Emil. Sharp pants become louder and louder as the tip of Spamton’s nose tickles the underside of his neck and chin.

Without warning, there’s a kiss. It’s quick, hesitant. Almost as if Spamton's disgusted. But Emil, having once been a virgin himself, knows it's only nerves.

Whatever insecurity Spamton has is blown away by the swift moan sprinting from Emil’s lips. In that instant, Spamton’s hips twitch. His tail brushes briskly side to side for but a moment, a clear sign of heightened arousal. He leans down, kissing Emil again. This time with more intensity and longevity.

Again and again, Spamton teases Emil’s neck with gentle pecks. His hands join in soon enough. They clasp Emil’s face as Spamton moves to his lips. Emil licks and bites them with haste, and then - Spamton kisses them. It’s chaster than expected. No tongue. No thrusting or moans.

Emil moves his hands to embrace Spamton, but he grabs them, placing them on the sides of Emil’s head. Emil rumples his brow in concern.

“Are you ok?”

“Depends on what you’re going to do,” Emil responds with a dithering jest.

“I’m -” Spamton inhales and exhales sharply. “I’m going to fuck you. L-like one of my pillows.”

Fuck you like one of my pillows.

The fear skittering about Emil’s core gives way to humor. He tries to conceal it, but it makes itself all too known in his response. “Yea?”

“Yea,” Spamton declares as if to counter.

To Emil’s surprise, Spamton's tone is serious. Determined. Something about it causes a strange mix of both anticipation and arousal.

“You said - you said that… That you bet it would feel good.” Spamton tightens his grip around Emil’s wrists ever so slightly. “I’ll make sure of that. But I have to warn you. It won't be gentle, if -” he swallows, steadying himself. “If that's what you want.”

If that's what you want.

Love. Touch. Passion.

Hate. Torment. Apathy.

Each of Emil's desires is a rose with thorns. He's never known one without them. And in truth, there's no such thing as a thornless rose.

Yet here he lies with a man he could easily overpower, A man of a meek nature much like his own. A man who, in his meekness, traverses beyond it. Stands up to giants in both temperament and status. Stands up against himself. A man who taught him to do the same.

They are of the same seed.

“Make me feel again,” Emil requests, his voice cracking as a cauldron of emotions brews in the pit of his chest. “Even if it hurts.”

Emil feels Spamton lean back in apprehension. It’s then that Emil opens his eyes and grabs Spamton's face, kissing him in a fierce embrace. Spamton jerks back at first, but soon returns in kind.

Lips lock in a frantic dance as they kiss and bite one another. Emil’s hips seize as pressure builds for him to be taken. He jerks upward, causing Spamton to whine and his hips to thrust sporadically. Emil's tail wiggles in a shivering motion as he fights every instinct to finish.

“Please,” Emil begs, snatching Spamton’s hand, placing it against his opening. A garbled moan rumbles from Spamton’s clenched teeth. Emil's so sensitive that the mere presence of Spamton’s hand causes his mound to swell even more. “Please,” Emil begs again through fevered pants.

As they lock eyes, something shifts in Spamton’s. Whatever sentience that resided within his ruby gaze is set aflame, leaving nothing but carnal desire. He dismounts, grabbing Emil’s side, and to Emil’s shock, turns him onto his chest with ease.

Claws dig into Emil’s hips as Spamton frantically positions the two of them. He presses down on the small of Emil’s back, causing him to arch, and grips the back of Emil’s shirt.

Without warning, Emil feels him. All of him. Emil grunts and gasps at the sensation of Spamton thrusting and swelling inside of him. And then - he’s locked.

Each breath is knocked out of Emil in rapid succession. He buries his face in the pillow to muffle the sound, but it does little. The bed, aged as it is, creeks with such force it feels as if it might break.

Faster and faster Spamton thrusts, legs brace and slide as he struggles to maintain on top. He presses Emil lower against the bed, groaning and hissing in the process. Emil’s shirt digs into his shoulders as Spamton grips it tighter and tighter for balance.

Spamton’s cock is fully erect and swollen. It’s big. Much bigger than Emil expected, not in length, which was moderate, but in girth. It presses against every element of him.The internal structures of his own cock and prostate. Emil wants to scream. He needs release. He bites the pillow, clasping it with such force his hands begin to numb.

“Spamton…” Emil gasps, lifting his head from the pillow. He reaches for Spamton’s hand, but Spamton retracts. Emil catches his breath as though he was lanced in the heart. A stinging sensation buds in the back of Emil’s eyes when suddenly there’s a firm grasp along the base of his of cock.

“Ah!” Emil slips, collapsing onto the bed as Spamton performs the maneuver Emil performed on him. A myriad of sounds escape Emil from screams to moans to sobs as the release he sought comes while Spamton remains on top, himself ready to climax.

The bed creaks as Emil slumps downward and Spamton thrusts so fast he too is slipping forward. Growls turn into groans and then pitiful mewls as he jerks upward in exclamation, seizing. Sharp, halted breaths sizzle from clenched teeth until he collapses on top of Emil.

Emil turns to his left as he feels Spamton retract and fall to his side. Elbows shake as Emil staggers up to sit up, only to instead flop onto his back for a moment before attempting again. He looks at Spamton, who stares blankly at the ceiling with half-closed eyes. Emil swipes back one of Spamton's bangs, causing him to stir.

Hazy ruby eyes framed by mahogany spectacles turn absently in Emil’s direction. Spamton swallows, and turns away. He locks his hands and rests them on his chest.

“Hey,” Emil murmurs weakly, scooting closer to Spamton, who starts breathing faster. “You ok?”

A sad, disoriented expression drenches Spamton. Chest heaving, he frowns as the ecstasy evaporates.

Emil opens his mouth, then closes it. He scoots further down where Spamton is, resting his head against his shoulder. They remain that way for a minute or two until he feels Spamton’s breathing calm.

Spamtom wipes his eyes and sniffles. “Sorry…”

Emil tilts his head up. “For what?”

“For being stupid…”

“What?” Emil leans back.

“I was too rough...”

“You weren’t,” Emil comforts with a sigh.

“Yes I was… I heard you crying…”

“No.” Emil sits up.

“You were…”

“Spamton, no.”

“I -”

“Stop. Look at me.” Spamton stiffens, remaining still as a fawn. “If you were too rough, I would’ve said something.”

Liar.

Emil winces, then sports a smile as fast as he can. “What sounds painful can mean someone’s enjoying it. And I enjoyed it. It felt good. Really good. I needed that,” he laughs breathlessly, rubbing Spamton's arm. “I’ll take rough sex over a rough day anytime.” When he doesn't respond, Emil continues. “If you told me you were a virgin, I wouldn’t have believed you.”

Spamton draws his hands closer to his breast. “Sorry I didn’t come over. That I didn’t pick up the phone…” He unfurls his left hand and picks at his chest. “Thanks. For checking in on me…”

“Hey, I get it,” Emil soothes. “We’re here now. That’s what matters, right?”

Spamton returns a subdued nod.

Emil licks his lips in consternated contemplation. “The first time I did it, I didn’t know what to feel. But I knew I felt embarrassed. Scared. As if - as if something about me changed. Was - revealed in some way. Some sick way…” He leans back down, facing Spamton. “I mean, it’s kind of weird to be naked with someone. To have them hear and see you in that way. It’s such a private thing. I never had anyone to walk me through it. To let me know these feelings weren’t uncommon. I know you’re ashamed - confused. That’s normal for some people. You’re dating me now. We can feel whatever we want.” Emil caresses an elongated scar on his wrist. “Without shame.”

Spamton turns to Emil, lips pursed with a blush to his cheeks. He leans into Emil’s chest, exhaling softly as he wraps his arm around him.

“Thanks for ending this on a good note,” Spamton whispers.

“Ditto,” Emil returns, blinking briskly as a tear rolls down his cheek. He pulls Spamton in closer. “Ditto…”

Notes:

This chapter contains several references to prior actions or incidents. For those who may be confused, an index is provided in the comment section of this chapter, which includes things that might have been overlooked or forgotten due to my slow updates. :')