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Any time the static-y white noise Tenna emitted while asleep was interrupted by a private broadcast to his screen, coming from his subconscious mind, Spamton’s solution was usually to cover his partner’s face with a small blanket and use one of the knobs on the side of his blocky head to turn down the volume. It was unfortunate, really. Spamton found the mindless static comforting, almost like rain sounds or waves crashing against a beach. It reminded him that Tenna was alive (for now) and well, safe and happy.
So when another one of the TV host’s dreams appeared on his cathode screen, casting a bright, eyestraining glow over Spamton’s smaller form, he intended to ignore it and follow the usual procedure, but something made him stop.
The picture and audio was grainier than usual, but through the crackling, Tenna’s voice called his name.
“Spamton?”
Small, unsure, searching. Hurt, almost. Blinking the sleep out of his glassy eyes, the salesman sat up on Tenna’s chest and tilted his head, studying the picture on his partner’s screen.
He was seeing things from Tenna’s eyes- of course he was, it was Tenna’s dream. The scene was set backstage in Tenna’s studio in TV world. Heavy, clacking footsteps sounded from the speakers as Tenna made his way through the hall of dressing rooms, stopping at Spamton’s. The door was slightly ajar.
“Spamton, are you, uh, alright?” Tenna asked in that beaten-puppy manner of his, always desperate for approval, never wanting to be left alone. “You’ve been back here a while, and-”
The room was empty. Sat on Spamton’s desk, the receiver hanging from the curling cord, grazing the floor, was a black rotary phone.
Spamton’s throat felt tight.
“Oh,” came Tenna’s voice from the speaker. “I must’ve missed him leaving,” he mused aloud, laughing nervously, smoothing his hands over the fabric of his red suit jacket.
The camera (or rather, Tenna’s head) swiveled around and lurched forward before moving steadily forward towards the breakroom. There was a small slip of paper on the coffee table, and Spamton knew what it said before Tenna even reached to pick it up.
Thanks for everything. See ya, Ant. Yours, Spamton G Spamton.
Tenna’s frown was audible in his tone; “What?”
Just then, the door to the break room opened, and an employee of theirs walked in. Tenna flagged him down, holding out the note.
“Do you have any idea what this means? Have you seen Spamton?” Tenna asked insistently, shaking the slip of paper at the poor Darkner. His voice was tense and strained.
“I dunno, Boss. I saw him ‘bout half an hour ago, leavin da studio. He was in a pretty big hurry if ya ask me,” they shrugged.
“I see,” Tenna’s voice shook. “Thank you,” he said, turning to leave. Spamton watched as Tenna walked back to his old dressing room, staring at the screen as a gloved hand reached down and picked up the phone. “...Hello?”
No answer.
Suddenly, Tenna fell to his knees, staring at the black receiver in his hands. He was silent, save for the static that was slowly filling the room. Guilt rose like bile up Spamton’s throat. He sat, silent, staring at the screen on his partner’s face as the picture slowly faded to static. He blinked twice, unsure of what to do. Part of him wanted to run again. Part of him wanted to ignore that this had ever happened; that he’d ever seen this nightmare; to roll over and go back to bed. The rest of him was undecided.
He was still frozen, thinking, when Tenna’s shoulders started to shake, and tears spilled from where the TV’s eyes would’ve been. Spamton’s eyes widened, and he scrambled forward, cupping Tenna’s head with his ball-jointed hands.
“Tens,” he whispered frantically. “[10% off],”
His partner didn’t stir. He was sobbing in earnest now, weeping openly in an ugly, intense way.
“[10/10]!” Spamton whisper-shouted. “Tenners! Come on, [Cathode], [Rise And Shine]!” he shook the host’s sleeping form with all the might in his very much smaller body. “[Trash Heap]!” He kept trying. If only he could say Tenna’s actual name; this would be so much easier. Spamton kep shaking his partner, even as his head fell and he squeezed his eyes shut, guilt nearly suffocating him. “I’m [So So Sorry], Ten, I…” he didn’t have the words. He probably never would. How do you apologize for something like that?
The static stopped. The room was bathed in off-white light. “...Spammy?”
Spamton’s head snapped up. “You-!” he regained his composure, instinctively smoothing back his long, unkempt (mostly) black hair. “You were dreaming,”
“...Oh. Sorry.” Tenna’s voice sounded hollow.
“[Cathode], I…” Spamton frowned, looking away. He still didn’t know what to say. He sat back on his legs, looking very much like a different man than the one Tenna had known all those years ago. He was softer, more ragged and raw. Entirely artificial, yet somehow, much more real than he’d ever felt. “[I love TV!],” he finally decided.
Now it was Tenna’s turn to be silent. His hand trembled as he reached forward and cupped Spamton’s entire head in his massive mitt, more tender and gentle than anything Spamton had ever known. “Do you mean that?”
Spamton blinked. It was a fair question. He thought about it, wanting to give Tenna the truth, as much as he could. “...Yes,” he finally admitted. “And [I’m sorry],” he added. “For [everything],”
“I keep thinking-” Tenna cut himself off, looking away. “I keep telling myself this is temporary, that you’re going to leave again. That you’ll run away,” he sounded absolutely destroyed. “I don’t want to get- hurt. Like I was before,”
Spamton frowned. Silently, he brought his hands up to hold the fingers cradling his face, and, similar to a bird or small animal of that manner, he nuzzled into Tenna’s hand. “I don’t want to [leave] you,”
“Then don’t,” Tenna pleaded. “Please?”
Spamton stilled. It was a terrifying thought; staying in one place for the rest of his life, staying by Tenna’s side, committing himself to the other man. But at the same time… He’d never wanted anything more.
“Okay,” He said simply. And that was that.