Chapter Eight
~ T ~
“Hey, Ant.” Tenna grimaces to himself. The Dreemurrs had stayed up late today, and it’s well past midnight. A few Pippins are playing a button-masher fighting game, and Tenna is starting to nod off watching them, so he's just moved to stand up when Spamton reaches over to nudge his shoulder. His co-host seems exhausted, with dark bags under his eyes. He's been going through coffee like it's water all day; any moment that he wasn’t on camera, he was leaning against a desk or a podium. “If I sit, I’m not getting back up,” he’d said when a Pippins had offered to get him a chair.
“Hey, partner,” Tenna greets.
Spamton looks at him oddly. “Want some company back to [The] dressing rooms?”
“Oh, no, stay out here, enjoy the games—”
Spamton’s hand on his shoulder isn’t nudging anymore. It’s a full-on iron-clad grip. “[But wait! There’s more!] I insist.”
One of the Pippins gives him a side-eye, and Tenna feels hot air blowing out of his vents. “Well… why not, then?” Spamton nods decisively and jumps off the couch, staring expectantly until Tenna joins him. The salesman silently leads him to his dressing room, opens the door, and gestures for him to enter. Tenna nods his thanks, trying to stifle the ball of dread sitting in his chest.
As soon as the door closes, Spamton leans against it and lights up a cigarette. “Listen, [[CRT]], I’m too tired to be nice [Right] [Right now!], so if you’ve got something to say, just say it.”
“…Did you mean to say ‘right’ twice?”
Spamton levels him with an unamused look. If Tenna could sweat, he would right now, but as it stands, his shoulders drop and he sighs, letting his screen go blank. Silence drags on between them before Spamton huffs. “Geez. If I’d known [Making] would be such a [Big] [Deal], I wouldn’t have pushed it. But it takes [2] to tango, you know!”
“I know!” Tenna finally finds words, looking up as his screen blares. “I know. Jeez. Y’know, Spamton, I pride myself on my professionalism, and what happened in Cyber City was not professional. Pardon me for being in uncharted territory here! Sleeping with my cohost—this is a contractual nightmare!”
Spamton blows out a cloud of smoke, his brows drawn in a way that looks utterly unimpressed. “…How? It was just a bit of [Fun for the—]” Spamton stops short, frowning as he touches his throat. After a second, he tries again, his voice a bit strained. “…Fun. No harm in that.”
“We’re cohosts, Spamton.” Tenna sits down on the couch, waving his hands. “It’s… it could be seen as abuse of power, or favoritism!”
“You mean I’m not your favorite? ‘Cause Elnina said as much.”
Tenna freezes. A flicker of a smirk graces Spamton’s face before it disappears again. “I… damn it. Okay, yes, I… do like you a bit more than I probably should on a professional level.” Tenna hangs his head. “And on a personal level, too. But still… it’s best if it never happens again.”
The words hang in the air.
~ S ~
It’s a bluff. At least, that’s what Spamton’s choosing to believe, because the way Tenna says that… well, he’s having trouble believing it. Spamton mulls it over, finally pushing off the door to join Tenna on the couch and putting out his finished cigarette. He then immediately pulls the carton back out to light up another. “Want [1]? I know you’re a [Genuine Imported Cuban Cigars!] guy, but think of it as a peace offering.”
Tenna hesitates, then sighs. “Sure.”
But just as he’s reaching into his coat for a lighter, Spamton says, “Here, I’ve got it.” Moment of truth. He reaches up to grab Tenna’s tie, pulling him down until they’re nearly face-to-face. Tenna flails slightly, starting to sputter something indignantly, before Spamton holds him steady, using his own cigarette to light Tenna’s. It takes precious seconds for it to catch, and Tenna’s screen grows more and more pink the longer they sit there, face-to-face and so close that Spamton can hear the high-pitched whine from the screen. “There,” Spamton says, unable to hide his smugness as he leans back. “[On the house].”
“A bit unnecessary, don’t you think?” Tenna mumbles. He clutches his knee with his free hand, his body language stiff and utterly flustered. Bluff: called.
“What? Just a [HonestMan] sharing his [While supplies last!].” Tenna grumbles quietly but drops the argument. To drive the point home, Spamton asks with a bit of sweet insincerity, “Strictly business from here on out, [Right]?”
“R-right.” Tenna takes a long drag before his shoulders puff up in bravado, and he stands up. “It’s high time we remembered that this is, in fact, a business, and I am nothing but professional. So thank you for the cigarette, but it’s getting late. I will see you in the morning, cohost.” Spamton raises his brows and watches as Tenna heads to the door. He turns on his heel to point at Spamton with two fingers and repeat, “Nothing but professional!” before he steps outside, closing the door loudly behind him.
Spamton sighs, pulls up his sleeve, and looks down at his watch. He can faintly hear shoes clicking down the hallway. One, two, three, four, five…
He counts down nearly ten seconds before footsteps hurry back to his door and Tenna bursts inside, his antennae bent in indignation. “Damn you,” he hisses, barely making sure the door is closed behind him before he slides to his knees in front of Spamton. His antennae droop in shame. “I lied, I can’t be professional. Not about this. Cyber City was fun!” The word pops up on his screen like a bright red bubble.
Spamton fights not to laugh, reaching up to rest his hand on top of Tenna’s head, dangerously close to the antennae. “Hey, nothing to be ashamed about, [[CRT]].” Tenna rests his head on Spamton’s lap like a sad puppy. Or, it would be sad if it wasn’t so satisfying to be [Right]. “You’re [Large and In Charge] of this whole place. You make [The] rules here. There’s nothing wrong with a nice [Splurge] once in a while.”
Tenna mulls that over for a second. “…You’re right. TV World is mine. It doesn’t really matter what anyone thinks about how I run things, does it? I’m in charge.” When Spamton nods, Tenna leans back, sitting upright. His screen turns to static, his nose disappearing to leave behind a flat surface. “And I think… you need that reminder just as much as I do.”
“Wait—” What?
Before Spamton can question it, Tenna nudges his knees apart enough to lean forward, screen-to-face. “Going around, yanking me by the tie like I’m a dog on a leash! Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners, Mr. Big Shot?” His mouth takes up almost the entire bottom of the screen with its wicked smile, fangs fully on display. “Lucky for you, that’s a lesson I’m willing to give.”
~ T ~
“So it’ll just a be a mild contract change, I think,” Tenna says. He’s shrunk himself down enough to lie flat on his back, but one leg still dangles over the arm of the couch, and the other bends so his foot is flat on the floor. “That way, if we do ever end up parting ways, TV Time and Big Shot Autos are still safe business-wise. A clean partnership break.”
Spamton mumbles something incoherently, something vaguely like “mm-hm”.
“Really, what was I ever so worked up about?” Tenna laughs softly, pressing a palm against his screen. “I guess… Well, total honesty, the fact that this has never happened before. Never even came up as a possibility! But I’ll give you credit, this has really cleared my head.” Spamton doesn’t respond at all this time, splayed out on Tenna’s chest with one hand tucked under his cheek and the other hanging loosely at his side. Tenna glances down. “…You okay, partner?”
“Yuh” is the only reply. Tenna wiggles a bit to look, and he swears that his co-host’s eyes are downright glazed over as he stares blankly into the dressing room. His breathing has finally started to settle, but his hair is tousled, having been forcibly broken from the gel cast that kept it slicked back. There’s a massive bite mark on his left shoulder, and his clothes… well, with a quick glance, Tenna notices a button missing from his shirt as it lay discarded on the floor. In retrospect, he could have held back a little. But, well… the stress got to him more than he cares to admit.
Tenna smooths his hand over his co-host’s hair as a silent apology. “Maybe… we should talk business later. Sorry, Spammy, I get a little ahead of myself sometimes.”
Spamton heaves a big sigh and finally blinks. “You, uh… heh. So when I said you were [Large and In Charge], I wasn’t expecting you to [Show it off?] like that.” He pauses to tilt his head towards Tenna, a tired smile on his face. “[this has never happened before].” It’s a bit weird to hear his own voice, albeit somewhat tinnier, coming from Spamton, but the meaning of the words is more important here. Seeing Tenna’s antennae shoot up in surprise, Spamton hurriedly adds, “Being on this end, I mean.”
Tenna pauses to contemplate that before he laughs. “Oh, right. Mr. Big Shot is too used to getting his way, hm?”
“Jerk.”
Tenna leans up carefully, making sure not to jostle his co-host too much, and kisses him on the top of the head. “First time I’ve heard you complain about it. Large and in charge, right?”
Spamton rolls his eyes and smiles. “Fame really does go to your head, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, this wasn’t for fame.” Tenna wraps his arms around Spamton’s waist, hugging him close like a child holds their favorite stuffed animal. “This was all for you, my favorite cohost.” And if the word 'favorite' floats up from Tenna's screen in a saccharine, flowy pink script, well, that's no one's business but theirs.
~ S ~
Before he made it [[Big]], Spamton got used to mending his own clothes. As the least successful of the Addisons, he had been used to going long stretches with tight funds. Tenna accidentally popped a button getting his shirt off last night (the thought still makes his heart feel a little funny), but it’s nothing that he can't sew back on pretty quickly. He even hums quietly to himself as he pulls the thread, a gentle, repetitive motion that he can easily lose himself in.
Tenna is gussying up at Spamton’s vanity, occasionally stopping to watch him. “What a real jack-of-all-trades, huh?”
Spamton looks up just long enough to wink at him before he goes back to tying off the thread. Once he’s sure the button repair looks seamless, he shrugs his shirt back on. “What [Time!] are we on?”
Tenna checks his watch. “…Half an hour to pre-check.”
“Great. When you’re done preening, let’s go get [The Best Part of Waking Up], huh?”
“Preening?” Tenna laughs, swinging around in the chair. “I’m not the one that takes twenty minutes to do my hair.”
“Hey, it takes a lot of work to get this [Look]!”
With another chuckle, the TV host stands up to his full height, re-adjusting his coat. “Coffee sounds great, partner. But…” Tenna’s smile turns insufferably smug. “You sure you’re alright to walk that far?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, [[CRT]].” Spamton jumps up from the sofa and heads to the door, hoping he’s fast enough that Tenna can’t see the flush creeping across his cheeks.