Chapter Eleven
~ T ~
It’s Halloween. But it’s not just any Halloween; this is Spamton’s first Halloween with TV Time. “Things are going to get intense once the sun sets,” Tenna warns him, making sure his ringleader costume is pressed and ready to go. “Especially if December comes by the house—she and Kris are fiends for a horror movie marathon! I hate to say it, partner, but this will be a long day.”
“You’re even [All Dressed Up] for it,” Spamton comments, raising an eyebrow at the costume and taking a drag from his cigarette. “I’ll hand it to you, Ant, you’re [In A Committed—].”
Tenna spins on the ball of his foot with a flourish. “Entertainment requires passion, my dear cohost! If we do our regular humdrum routine, there’d be no more reason to watch TV today than any other day! We’re mostly emcees tonight, but we still have to play the part.”
Spamton’s costume is the full stereotypical Dracula thing, although he refuses to wear the fangs any longer than he has to. “I sound like Daffy Duck,” he complains during a commercial break. He pulls the retainer out, staring at the plastic fangs with disdain.
“Oh, lighten up, Spammy. It’s just for show.” Tenna pats his shoulder and grins. “You do make a handsome Dracula.”
Spamton preens a little at that, finally offering a genuine smirk. “Oh, I [Bets!] I do.” That confidence fades at the next horror movie, a slasher flick that Tenna has seen many times now. December really likes the, uh… creative ways that the characters die. Spamton, however, does not, actually screaming at a jumpscare and scrambling back, wrapping himself up in his cloak like it’s a barrier. “[Heaven], Ant!”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re scared!” Tenna laughs, pausing when Spamton doesn’t emerge from the cloak. “…Oh, are you actually?”
“Listen, I’ve seen my share of [Relaxing Car Drive]. Doesn’t mean I have to [[Like and Subscribe!]] it!”
“Relaxing Car Drive?”
Spamton emerges from the cloak to shake his head. “You don’t want to [hopefully never know].”
Thankfully, the rest of the Halloween marathon goes by uneventfully aside from Spamton having to walk laps and calm down after intense scenes. “That’s a wrap!” Tenna says, clapping his hands when he sees Toriel turn the screen off. December and Asriel are passed out against each other on the floor, and Kris and Noelle are curled up on the couch, and the scene makes Tenna’s heart swell in his chest. “Another successful Halloween.”
“You weren’t kidding,” Spamton says wearily, popping his fake fangs out for the last time. “Ugh. How does [Anyone and anything] talk with these things?”
“Listen, the budget is what it is.” Tenna pauses, taking a look around. A stage-managing Zapper is taking the reins, ordering the rest of the crew to start tearing down the seat. Aside from some passing praise, no one is paying much attention to them. “Let’s call it a night, huh? The crew can handle the clean up.”
Spamton nods. Tenna leads him back to his dressing room and makes himself at home on the couch. Once Spamton’s undressed, Tenna pulls him down, nuzzling into him tightly. “Geez, [[CRT]]—” Spamton protests, pushing against him.
“Relax,” Tenna coos. Spamton stops fighting after a second, submitting himself to the forced cuddle session. He does eventually relax, resting his head on Tenna’s chest. “For your first holiday special, you did great.”
“Of course I did,” Spamton says, but his voice lacks conviction. Tenna chalks it up to exhaustion.
~ S ~
At some point early on in his arrangement with Tenna, Spamton agreed to handle the fan mail. Well, actually, Tenna assumed he’d handle the fan mail, and Spamton figured he might as well. Even now that he has more say in segments and sponsorships, he still spends his free time in the mail room, sorting through poorly-written love letters and the occasional piece of hate mail. He shreds those instantly; the one time a piece of hate mail got through to Tenna, they had to play reruns since Tenna had shrunk to the size of an actual ant and sulked the entire day.
Another pipis spawns in on the stack of hate mail with a chirp. Spamton sighs and tucks it away in his jacket.
Knuckles rap on the door before it creaks open. “Oh, cohost?” Tenna calls gently. “Fresh coffee in the Green Room!”
Spamon blinks and looks up. Something in his spine cracks at the motion, and he realizes that he’s been slouching like a shrimp over the desk for a good two hours now. “Hochi mama. Didn’t realize I’d been in here that long.” He stands up from his desk and, on a whim, picks up the stack of fan mail on his desk, handing it to Tenna as he passes by.
They settle into the Green Room, where, sure enough, there’s half of a fresh pot of coffee at the ready. Spamton knocks back a cup black just to wake himself up. The second cup he readies with a splash of cream and sugar, joining Tenna on the sofa as the TV host starts picking through the mail. “…Aww. ‘Your show is very specil to me’. Specil. How cute is that?”
Spamton looks up to see Tenna reading a letter with a warm smile on his face. Flowers bloom on his screen in multi-colored little buds. It’s adorable, and Spamton feels that strange feeling in his chest again. Warm, safe, like he could sit here and do this forever. And suddenly, the warm feeling disappears under an icy chill that pierces through his chest. The thought strikes him like a missile: he could do this forever. He likes being here. He likes TV World, he likes his dressing room, he likes hearing Tenna babble on about show ideas and metrics, and the way he adores the family that watches him. But no, that’s not quite right. He doesn’t like it.
He loves it. He—
“Spammy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Spamton blinks back to the present to see Tenna leaning towards him, looking concerned. “Oh! Just thinking.” Spamton forces a smile and sets his coffee cup down. “Hey , I’ve got a lot of numbers to crunch. I’m gonna head back to the office, okay?”
Tenna tilts his head. “Uh… sure. Are you okay?”
“Never better!” Spamton hops off the couch and waves goodbye, waiting until he’s out of Tenna’s sight to spring back to the office and lock the door behind him. The revelation that’s just struck him pounds in his head like a nail: he loves being here. Life is so much better here than in Cyber City. Here, he doesn’t have to worry about running into those [Sloppy sams] with their fake businesses and fake smiles. He can just sit here, crunch numbers, sort mail, and figure out ad spots.
He can wake up in the mornings to Tenna holding him. They can risk some ‘special attention’ in the hours before they’re on for a show, where Spamton can literally wrap Tenna around his fingers. He can be himself behind closed doors. He can relax. He loves being in TV World. He loves being here with Tenna.
Holy [Cungadero]. Does he love Tenna?
The answer settles like a precariously placed brick in his chest.
~ T ~
After the fourth day in a row of Spamton waking him up to get frisky, Tenna starts to suspect something’s up. By no means does he dislike the attention, but it’s getting to a point where they’re too busy to do much else. During the show, they’re both ‘on’, and Spamton focuses on the numbers and getting the sponsors sorted out. After the show, he locks himself in his office until the studio closes down, at which point he frequently worms his way into Tenna’s dressing room.
It’s lovely, but also very distracting. “Spamton,” Tenna says one night when the salesman knocks on his door. “Do we need to talk about something?”
Spamton stares up at him, eyes wide. “No!!! Not at all!” But his smile is a little too wide; with the cracks along his jaw, it’s a little uncanny. “Just enjoying our [[All Alone]]—alone time while we can.”
“Oh really?” Tenna crosses his arms, tilting his head. “You know I love spending time with my favorite cohost, but I’m starting to think you’re using me for my body.”
Spamton laughs at that, his uneasiness slipping off of him like water off a duck’s back. “Oh please! Only as much as you’re using me for mine!”
“It is a nice body,” Tenna concedes with a smile. “Still. I dare say you’re wearing me out, Spammy.”
Spamton raises his hands. “Okay, okay, no funny [Sunday Business], promise.” He glances aside, his smile fading. “…I’ve just been thinking [alot] lately. About our arrangement.”
Tenna relaxes a bit as well, leading Spamton to the couch and pouring them both some whiskey. “Our contract’s still favorable, I hope!”
“Yeah, you bet.” Spamton clinks his glass against Tenna’s and takes a sip. “I’m just starting to think, uh… [Long-Term Profits].” He taps his finger against his glass, staring off towards the wall before he takes a deep breath. “I like it here, Ant. You’ve been good to me as far as business partners go. Better than those [Schmoes] that ditched me the second I started making it [Big].” He glances up at Tenna with a smile. “I know I can’t stay forever. But while I am here… let’s make the most of it, huh?”
Tenna smiles again, relief flooding his systems, but soon replaced with curiosity. “What are you thinking?”
Spamton shifts on the couch, staring up at him with a bright smile. “Mr. Ant Tenna… I agree to your original [Terms And Conditions Apply].”
~ S ~
“This is an exclusive offer.”
It’s the one condition to Spamton’s [Deal]. He doesn’t know much about his benefactor, but they definitely seem like the reclusive type. Still, he’s spent the past few days and nights pacing his office and dressing room—well, when he wasn’t rolling around with Tenna on the dressing room couch (and walls and floors and tabletops). Yes, his benefactor gives him ideas, the right things to say to get people hooked. But it was he alone who had convinced them to even give him a shot. That means he has some kind of charisma. He can convince his benefactor that this is a good idea.
It takes Tenna a day to dig up the original contract, the one that gives him a permanent position in exchange for his trade secrets. They meet in Spamton’s dressing room after the show wraps up, and Tenna has a giddy smile on his screen even as he says, “You’re sure about this, Spammy? I don’t want you to think you have to do this. I’m happy working with you regardless.”
“Ant. This is the only [Deal] that I really see working out for both of us.” Spamton pauses, taking a deep breath. This is his chance to come clean. To admit what he’s come to terms with. And… he can’t do it. The words catch in his throat like a hairball that he has to swallow back down. So he settles for the soft version. “Nobody deserves to be [Big] with me more than you do.”
Tenna stares down at him, his screen going blank for a moment as he processes the statement. “Spamton…” he says softly, clutching the contract close to his chest. “I… thank you.” He clears his throat after a second and sets the contract down on the coffee table. “So! As permanent of a position as we can get—although I think at this point, the laptop is legally Asriel’s, since he doesn’t seem keen on returning it—in exchange for what made you so successful.”
Spamton nods, glancing over the contract again just in case. It all seems perfectly reasonable, more of an official expansion on his pre-existing responsibilities than anything. So he grabs the pen and signs it with a little flourish, sliding it back over to Tenna.
Tenna signs off right below him, staring at their names on the paper. It’s so… official. “Well then!” Tenna leans back on the couch, folding his hands in his lap. “So, Mr. Spamton. What’s the secret?”
Spamton grins. “Well, it all started with—”
And just then, the phone rings.