Archive of Our Own

Mr  Ant Tenna was not a man who easily got nervous.

Well, that was a lie, but if maybe he kept thinking it maybe it would come true. Maybe he could lean back in his chair in an easy relaxation - like Spamton could - and scoff or roll his eyes whenever someone even suggested that he was nervous.

Oh, but he was. Nervous that is.

He'd been switching between sitting in his chair and pacing around the room like a paranoid lunatic.

Tenna was sitting at the moment: his foot hammering into the floor as his leg bounced anxiously up and down like a rabbit, and staring at the door.

He'd already fixed his collar an uncountable amount of times, and checked himself over in his vanity to rub away any dust or straighten out his antenna. His blazer was neatly laying over the back of his chair and he'd folded and unfolded his shirt sleeves so many times there were creases in the fabric he'd have to get dry-cleaned.

He'd also checked his clock - a analogue little circle that rested beside his mirror and ticked softly - about a thousand times as the seconds stretched into minutes.

It had been fifty seven minutes since Spamton had left Tenna's room.

Not that he was counting.

Tenna had watched his business partner stroll confidently out of the room - his own blazer flung over his back, with that cocky grin of his - less than an hour ago. So why was he acting so clingy?

Spamton would be back.

Spamton wouldn't abandon him... would he?

No. No no no, Spamton literally, explicitly told him "be right back".

So Tenna needed to stop being such a nervous wreck about it.

He'd probably gotten side-tracked.

Spamton always did like to talk Tenna's employee's heads off about the ratings that had skyrocketed after the little mailman had joined.

... But everyone would be going home by now, even the late night shows being over a while ago. Everyone had been in high spirits because of the perfect little ad shoot that he and Spamton had performed.

So not talking to the Shadowmen, or gambling with the Pippins...

Tenna doubted Spamton would try and sneak another cigar, as after Tenna had chewed him out for smoking inside, they tended to smoke together outside. So much for trying to quit, because Tenna could never stop sneaking glances at his partner as he took drags and blew rings with the smoke, before looking over with a grin to see if Tenna saw.

Now he thinking about it, Tenna didn't really know what else Spamton actually did with his free time other than drink until the dirty looks Ramb sent him got too much, or get distracted by a phone-call.

The chair under Tenna creaked slightly as he shrunk a few feet, his fingers digging into his knees, stilling his legs.

A phone-call. That damned phone!

He was probably talking on the thing right this moment. His stupid benefactor always seemed to call whenever Tenna was finally getting somewhere when talking with Spamton. It was like it was constantly listening in.

That high-pitched ringing that would have Spamton jumping in his seat, and already moving away while stumbling out weak excuses and nervously smoothing back his hair. The phone was always more important; always took his attention away from where it truly should be: on Tenna.

Tenna grit his teeth, and realised his claws were straining against the material of his gloves so took a deep breath in through his nose.

His foot has tapping against the floor again, and he ran his fingers along the side of his screen anxiously.

Glancing at the clock again, Spamton had been gone for fifty eight minutes and eleven seconds.

Maybe, he wasn't coming back. Maybe he'd already left, already forgotten about him.

Spamton was new, fresh, from that Cyber World. He understood the inter-web, and emails, and people liked to talk to him. Spamton had options of who to work with.

The person on the phone was probably calling Tenna old, and obsolete and Spamton probably agreed, and he had left Tenna-

"Alright." Tenna suddenly spoke to himself through grit through his teeth, slapping his legs before standing up. "That's enough of that."

He checked himself over in the mirror, brushing his shirt down his both hands, just to fill more time.

He looked at the clock again and it had been fifty nine minutes since Spamton had left.

Tenna growled to himself, steadily growing a few feet in anger.

How dare this little salesman leave him. Mr Tenna. Mr TV!

He made Spamton into a star!

The audience loved him, because of Tenna. Not- not the other way around.

Taking one last glance at the ticking of seconds, Tenna stomped to the door, pulling it open and, ducking slightly, ran out into the corridor.

Spamton's phone was in his dressing room; right next to Tenna's own dressing room. Spamton had once joked about knocking down a part of the wall so that they could always see each other and Tenna still thought about actually doing it.

Especially now, as he stood in from of Spamton's door.

It was the same size as Tenna's - Spamton had looked so genuinely offended when asked if he wanted a smaller door - but instead of the placard reading 'Mr Ant Tenna' in block capitals, Spamton's name was clearly scripted in curved black paint with a gold background.

It sparkled in the lights of the corridor and suddenly the anger in Tenna seemed to drain slightly.

For such a small man, Spamton was surprisingly intimidating when he wanted to be. Something to do with his past sales tactics, or that hungry look in his eye whenever he spotted something that he deemed good for the market.

Tenna shrunk an inch, as he knocked on the door.

"Spamton?" He called, his voice forcibly cheerful, "You in there? Still...? You said you'd be back. It's been an hour."

No reply.

Tenna huffed, knocking again.

"Hey." He insisted, still shaking with annoyance while his free hand fiddling with his tie, "You better not be talking on that phone again."

The silence was getting a little eery now. With all his employees home, and the sets packed up, the studio was rather quiet.

Tenna used to play records while writing scripts by himself to pass the time. Before Spamton came along with his boisterous laugh and Tenna finally had someone to bounce ideas off of to fill the quiet.

Spamton wasn't making any noises right now.

Shouldn't Tenna at least be able to hear muffled conversation?

"Spamton?" Tenna repeated nervously, banging on the door, "Spamton if- if you don't answer- I'm going to come in."

Dead quiet.

Tenna swallowed, pulled at his collar nervously, before hastily fixing it again to make himself presentable.

If he was going to chew Spamton out, he was going to do it while being Mr TV - sparkles, bouquets, applause! -and hopefully actually get the message through about these... phone calls and how they seemed to hog all of the mailman's time.

"I'm coming in." Tenna said firmly, placing a hand on the doorknob, pausing for a half a second to listen for any last-second movement from the other side of the door.

Once again, the room was silent. 

"Don't get mad...!" Tenna added last minute, before pushing down on the handle and opening the door, leaning to look into the room before the door was fully open.

The lights were on - those harsh, white bulbs that always made Spamton squint and grumble about ("Nothing should be [pure white], Cathode. It's unmarketable." The conversation was mundane enough, but he'd still sounded so bitter.) - but that was just about all that seemed to be in order.

There was some slight resistance as Tenna pushed the door, and he looked down to see one of Spamton's many blazers in an unorderly slump on the floor.

He frowned, glancing slightly up to the rest of the floor to see more of his partner's things in messy piles on the floor.

That was worrying. Spamton wasn't the neatest person - At least not when it was his own space: on camera, he was dazzling... - but this was excessively wild, even for him.

Tenna pushed against the cloth, fully opening the door and stepped into the room.

Spamton was slumped against his desk, his face buried into his arms.

"Spamton?" Tenna called, moving a little too fast over to him.

"Hey! You okay?" Tenna grasped one shoulder in his hand, and, when there was no response, gave him a little shake. 

Spamton let out a small groan, and it was then that Tenna noticed the alcohol glass on the table, empty, but the wooden table under it sporting a dark circle from condensation.

Tenna - now reassured Spamton was alive and with a hypothesis building in his mind about what his business partner was busying himself with while Tenna sat alone in his dressing room - glanced around for a bottle.

There, glinting in the harsh white lights, on the floor was an empty whisky bottle. 

Tenna bit back an angry noise, retracting his hand from Spamton's shoulder so not to stab him with his claws, and walked over to the bottle that was lying beside a pile of - probably dirty - clothes on the floor.

He picked it up, and hissed as he read the alcohol content on the label.

This stuff was strong, it was no wonder Spamton had...

Tenna breathed in, holding the bottle in his hand, and tried to quell the building rage under his skin.

Spamton had been drinking.

Spamton had been drinking hard whisky alone in his room when he had said he'd 'be right back'.

He'd been drinking, and apparently decided to redecorate.

Tenna angrily looked around the room, at the empty shelves and the closet - still open, the thin panelled sliding door was bent - and then back down by his feet at the trinkets on the floor.

Spamton took such pride in his appearance, and told extravagant stories from where he got everything on his shelves - usually from perfect deals, or souvenirs from expensive getaways, or coasters from bar hopping.

They were all in a careless heap on the floor.

The anger in his stomach had a little hiccup when he spotted the script he had handed to Spamton for the show tomorrow. The neatly highlighted pages had been torn from their staple, and were currently laying in every inch of the room.

That really wasn't like Spamton.

Sure, it always seemed that no matter how little he looked over his lines, Spamton always knew the right thing to say, but Spamton knew how much Tenna cared about his work.

He knelt down and picked up a page of paper, torn from the corner to near the middle, and glanced over the banter he'd scripted with a frown.

He sighed, and gently reached out to gather up the papers in that area to put back on the table. He didn't know why - to busy himself? - when he noticed the plastic on the floor.

His screen furrowed, and he let go of the ripped paper to poke at them. Shards of plastic and motherboard were practically embedded in the carpet, with rough indents of Spamton's shoe-prints around them. It was clear they were his, Spamton had them custom made to have taller heels.

Why would he...?

Tenna swallowed roughly, the anger that had blazed so hot just a moment ago, simmering with less vigour with the thickness in this throat.

Tenna stood up from his crouch, whisky glass still held in his hand, and rushed back over to Spamton, worry curling in his stomach.

This time he didn't hesitate to grab him by the shoulder and shake, his voice wavering as he spoke.

"Spamton. Spamton, wake up." He insisted, "I'm not mad- well not right now- just wake up-!"

Spamton was limp in his seat, but  the jostling moved his arms from where they had been wrapped tightly under his neck. The skin - from his fingers and up past his rolled sleeves, Tenna assumed - was an angry red, with thin darker messy lines running along Spamton's arm. 

It was especially bad around his joints - elbows, wrists, and especially his fingers which looked like they'd been bitten - and Tenna froze up when he saw the injuries.

"Spamton." Tenna moved his hand from Spamton's shoulder, holding the smaller limb carefully in his hand like he might break it, turning it over in his hands to take it all in.

His nails were short - clipped neatly, with the beginnings of cigarette stains between a few - but there was crusted blood under them.

Tenna ground his teeth together, jaw clenching as he felt himself growing in- in some horrible combination of emotion.

Where did he- When did he- Why did he-

Tenna looked down at Spamton's face and saw faint red lines on his jawline, presumably leading down to his neck and suddenly there was a smash and Tenna jumped as he realised he'd crushed the whisky bottle in his spare hand.

Before he could even begin to panic about the glass getting on Spamton, the man of the hour himself jolted in his seat so hard he hit his knees into the table.

"No-! [Lord of Screens] no no no- [no refunds!]"" He groaned lowly, grabbing at his face with one hand, the other still in Tenna's grasp.

Tenna froze up again, small shards of glass, and the odd stray drips of whisky falling from his glove.

The... thing was happening again. 

When Spamton's voice didn't sound right for what he said - the intonation being completely wrong for the situation, too smug or too calm or too panicked depending on nothing Tenna could predict. But that wasn't as weird as when his voice wasn't his voice, but someone else's words he'd mimic - usually an advertisement jingle, but sometimes it would sneer things that were spoken with malicious intent and unfriendly tones.

Tenna found them entertaining usually: grinning and applauding the parroting like he was the audience, and Spamton was the showman - imagine it! - but as he got to know the man, Tenna slowly learned his tells. The way his jaw clenched up whenever it happened, and he rubbed at his pointer finger with his thumb in irritation. The way his grin got just too big to be natural - not that Spamton's smiles ever looked all too natural to begin with.

Spamton always hated these interruptions - at least Tenna assumed so due to the clear effort he put in to hide them.

He'd always laugh them off as a joke - or strain himself enough to not say them that he'd build up a sweat on his face.

Tenna tried to ignore them too, after he learnt that, to not bring attention to them.

It was odd to hear them so close together in one rambling sentence.

It sounded like a nightmare.

Tenna didn't even think Spamton had fears with how perfect he always presented himself - let alone ones that would haunt his sleep.

He said... 'Lord of Screens'...? Was that him?

Was Tenna doing something wrong - something scary?

He didn't have much time to contemplate this as the man below him was stirring more - panicked breaths slowing as he got a hold of himself.

Spamton groaned, pressing his fingers into his eyelids. He took in a deep breath, to calm himself, before trying to move his other arm, realising it was trapped.

It was like a switch was flipped.

Spamton startled aggressively, eyes flying open wide and wild as he kicked out and flinched into standing. The chair he was sitting on flung backwards, tipping over so it's legs pointed towards the pair of them.

Within the same action, Spamton's other hand grasped violently onto Tenna's arm and dug his nails into it with the aim to cause pain, pushing him away.

"N0-! Let me [everything must go go go!]- GO-!" He cried out, and Tenna immediately splayed his fingers outwards in shocked fear for the man, pulling away.

Spamton clearly wasn't expecting his demand to be followed and flailed backwards, arms windmilling, tripping on the upended chair legs.

"[#!X$]" He yelped out a censored curse, landing on the floor hard, squinting against the bright lights of the room.

His hand immediately went to his wrist, rubbing it desperately as his lungs heaved. Tenna's gut clenched in guilt.

"Spamton-" Tenna tried to say, to calm him down, but at his voice Spamton flinched again.

He kicked against the chair, shuffling backwards with his eyes squeezed shut and hands pushing against against the glass shards in carpet to move him away quicker.

"No- I don't [want to watch in 4k definition?] again-" He whimpered, moving backwards until he hit the messy pile of clothing and other items.

He pushed his body against the mess, like he was trying to fill in empty space.

His fingers raked over his arms; his nails clawing over his scalp until he stilled: hands hugging the back of his neck, elbows almost touching his knees as he curled up smaller than Tenna had ever seen him.

Spamton wasn't supposed to small.

Tenna knew the irony in that belief - with Spamton being barely taller than a pippins - but Tenna just couldn't think of Spamton as anything but big.

He had a big personality that instantly hooked a room, big grins that dissipated any tension and big body language to overcompensate for his stature.

Spamton made big business deals and had important associates with big influences; Spamton drew in a big audience for Tenna; Spamton made the big bucks and wasn't afraid to flaunt it; Spamton was a Big Shot with a big car and a big room in the Queen's mansion.

Spamton was huddled into a tiny shaking, heaving ball and was bleeding into the dressing room carpet.

Tenna swallowed, and took a step towards him.

Spamton didn't seem to notice, his breathing erratic and his eyes screwed shut.

Tenna skittered closer again, keeping his hands open and unthreatening.

Spamton's face twitched and he pressed his face into the pile of clothes, his thumbs running over his throat as his fingers stayed hugged the back of his neck.

As Tenna got closer he noticed Spamton's cheeks were damp, and fresh tears were caught in the corners of his eyes. Tenna couldn't name a single time he saw Spamton look genuinely sad, let alone shed a tear. What had happened...?

He stayed a few steps away, kneeling down and placing his hands on his knees.

"Hey, big guy..." He practically whispered, not wanting to spook him again.

Spamton tensed up again and his mouth did this horrible little thing where his lips pressed together as his jaw clenched and a small, sad little noise escaped from the back of his throat.

"It's okay: it's just me." Tenna said softly, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger nervously, "It's... It's just Tenna."

Spamton shook his head, and his hands twitched like he wanted to move them but was caught between fulfilling that want, or protecting his neck still. He compromised by keeping one hand - the one closest to Tenna - cradling his neck, while the other clawed at his elbow.

"Hey- don't do that-" Tenna reached out, but halted, remembering the previous reaction.

He brought his hand back to his knee, pawing at his trousers anxiously.

Spamton's hand had, too, paused for half a second, before running his nails up to his wrist joint and scratching at in with loud breaths.

"You're safe." Tenna started, somewhat lost, "You're in your dressing room with me. It's, uh, a bit of a mess."

Spamton heaved in a gasp of air before swallowing audibly, pushing his thumb into his eyes.

Tenna fidgeted, "The lights are on: those white ones that you hate. Do you want me to turn them off?"

Spamton made a oddly-pitched kind of spasming sound, but that was the closest Tenna had gotten to a word in a while, so he softly took to his feet to turn the lights off. In the darkness, Spamton somehow looked even smaller, bathed in Tenna's screen's light.

Tenna again took his position by Spamton, kneeling in the carpet.

"Spamton? I- is that better?" He said slowly.

Spamton didn't respond, nails still imbedded in his elbow, but he tilted his head to the side and sniffed.

"I thought so." Tenna nodded, glancing over to the table Spamton had been passed out on, "You never liked them all that much."

Tenna shuffled into a more comfortable sitting position.

Spamton's phone was seated smugly beside the empty glass on his table: the receiver hanging off the edge, stretching the cord. It barely swung in the air - maybe Spamton had knocked into it when he woke? - and Tenna had a rather dark thought of it reminding him of a body hung from a noose. Or a puppet who's strings were hung high, the play paused for a moment.

He shivered: Asriel never did like puppet shows, and Tenna shared that opinion. Kris, however, loved to chase him and Noelle with puppets they'd snuck out from the school's classroom; at least until Toriel caught them and took them back.

Tenna hadn't seen Noelle in a long time. He wondered if she still fell over when she was scared, like when Dess found horror films that weren't blocked by Tenna's parental controls.

Tenna hadn't seen Dess in an even longer time.

That phone.

Tenna sighed softly, glaring at the thing with distain. Spamton always treated it with care, placing it back on the receiver gently which was saying something. Spamton was not a gentle person: he was rough around the edges and Tenna loved it - despite how perfect Spamton presented himself on stage.

Tenna always preferred the Spamton he got to see when the cameras were powered down for the night anyway. The Spamton he shared drinks with and who teased him and who's grin wasn't that picture-perfect smile he put on for investors and sponsors, but the crooked one that was kept deep down until Tenna drew it out of him with a bad pun or silly remark. 

Tenna always felt like the self that Spamton portrayed himself as wasn't really who he was.

It was most obvious to tell whenever he had to take a call.

The straightening of his spine, the rolling of his joints and the way his already pale face went multiple shades whiter. The way his hand quivered as he waved goodbye and the way his steps were so oxymoronically uniform - like a toy soldier - after stumbling the first few feet. The way he glanced back at Tenna with that practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes as he almost manically fixed his hair - smoothing it down over and over.

Tenna looked back over at Spamton, who had one hand digging into the back of his neck and the other clamped around his jaw - trying to silence the heaving wet breaths.

Tenna fidgeted where he sat.

His voice wasn't helping calm Spamton - in fact it seemed to be making it worse - and no-one else was in the studio, not that Spamton would want anyone to see him like this anyway.

Tenna watched Spamton swallow, skin raw and red, flinching at the light from his skin.

He needed to do something though.

Leaning back, Tenna stared up at the poster above the table - of the pair of them posing to the camera, it was one of his favourites - and loaded up a video on his screen.

He felt his face flicker away and waited for the new image load up, the video fuzzy for a moment before bursting into wonderful clarity.

"Welcome welcome welcome to Big Shot Autos!" Spamton's grinning face blared from Tenna's screen, his hair quaffed and perfect as he held the wheel of his brilliant red Cungadero with one hand, and leaned on the window frame with the other arm, "The home of the fastest, most luxurious vehicles in Cyber City!"

A recorded audience of awed 'ooo's and 'ahh's crackled through Tenna's speakers and the recording's smile got a little wider, fake city landmarks whizzing behind him.

"That's right! Big Shot's only has the best of the best, at prices that will have you on, your, knees!" He winked to the camera, fake wind blowing into his face and his face camera-ready with soft red cheeks that dimpled as he laughed, "And if you visit us this month, we'll through in a coupon for 25% off, for a friend (included with purchase)! Just tell 'em your old pal Spamton G Spamton sent ya!"

"Isn't that right, darling?" Spamton purred, patting the car's dashboard in a voice that made Tenna's throat work, "Well, what are you waiting for? Take a ride around town in our Special Cungadero today, at the low low price of D$9999!" 

"Big Shot Autos!" Spamton's disembodied voice smirked - the words popping up onto the screen, along with the number to call to get in touch - as the car drove out of frame with TV magic, "Don't you wanna be a Big Shot?"

Tenna's face twitched as the ad's music faded away, as he decided whether or not to loaded up another video.

The room was quiet, with just the dim hum of Tenna's internal workings and the odd sniff from the addison beside him.

Tenna didn't dare look to Spamton, instead taking in the details of the poster on the wall. He admired Spamton's soft smile, and their closeness that made butterflies flutter in his workings, even now. He read over his own handwriting that marred the poster quietly, fingers twitching.

'To another year of amazing entertainment with my dazzling star! Yours, Ant'

"I didn't know [ewe] had that recorded." A voice murmured from beside Tenna.

His volume was low and a shake was present in his words that Tenna had never heard before. There was also a slight slur to each syllable, likely due to the - now smashed - empty bottle of liquor that had been consumed within the last hour.

"Why wouldn't I?" Tenna said softly, still tracing the soft curve of Spamton's eyebrows in the poster, "You were breath-taking." 

Spamton made a scoffing noise, and Tenna heard him shuffle in place.

"I was tacky." Spamton said, like he was reading from a script, "I [could, would, should] have been better."

Tenna shook his head with a sigh, "You were perfect. You've always been perfect."

"Hm." Spamton hummed non-committedly, and Tenna finally glanced to look at him.

"What happened?" He said, plain and simple, watching Spamton avoid looking at him with a thrum of pain in his chest.

"Nothing." Spamton bit out, almost instinctually, "I'm fine."

Tenna stared at him, a little offended, "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not." Spamton grit his teeth, "I'm fine, nothing's wrong. Stop worrying, [Cathode]."

They both winced at the dark, almost corrupted audio of the sound-byte.

"Then what happened to your voice?" Tenna pushed, shuffling his body to more clearly face Spamton, leaning on one hand, "Your arms? Your fingers, your neck?"

Spamton reflexively pawed at his neck with one hand, still not looking at Tenna. His fingers slid down from the back of his neck to the front, palming his throat hesitantly like he expected it to buckle under his touch. 

"It was just a [-or a family member been in an accident? Call the number on the sc-!]" He hit his head, hard, just above his ear with his other hand's inner wrist; the ad-read cutting out with a spark of static, "Accident. It was an. Accident."

Tenna looked at him with worry, hand halfway up to prevent him from hitting himself again before he forced himself to rest it on his folded knees again.

"An accident." Tenna repeated slowly.

Spamton nodded, staring with dead eyes towards the table; body language all levels of tense.

"Spamton, I know that's not true." Tenna insisted, voice growing in volume "You know that's not true."

"It's nothing..." Spamton said, voice sounding so incredibly tired, "Don't [worry wart]."

"Why can't you just talk to me?" Tenna said, desperation melting into his words

"I- I [want to start over?]- no- no, I want-" Spamton twitched, his teeth clacking audibly as his jaw slammed shut, cutting off his sentence. His eyebrows pinched and he looked down at the carpet, bowing his head. His lungs let out this awful twitching breath as he pressed a shaky hand to his jaw.

The other hand - that he'd just used to kickstart his brain - moved to hug around his midsection before his jaw opened with a click "[I don't want to talk about this anymore.]"

Tenna's chest felt constricted, his antenna leaning backwards. Spamton's voice had sounded so harsh - monotone and firm and final.

"You never do." Tenna huffed, voice bitter.

"[Picture box]-" Spamton turned to him with crazed pupils that seemed to drink in each inch of his screen, fingers still lingering on his own face as yet another ad read spat through his teeth.

"No. No, I'm sick of it" He frowned, arms splaying out to emphasise his emotions, "You- I feel like I know nothing about you. I tell you everything. Just let me help. Tell me what's going on."

"You- you can't [knowledge is a curse]-" Spamton shook his head aggressively, face going pale as he stared unblinking at Tenna's face, "I'll never [kiss and tell~] you- I- I can't-"

Tenna's screen twitched, a glimpse of Spamton laughing while patting a prop car, face bright and happy flashing across it.

"You ungrateful little...!" He growled, his size switching between growing and shrinking, "I gave you this show; I made you a star! Can't you trust me with this one thing?"

Spamton twitched, wild eyes staring and staring as his hands balling into fists and he angrily breathed out of his nose, "You? Made [mii]?"

"You did [Jack and Jill]." He shakily made his way to his feet to get some kind of height advantage, stumbling from the booze, and pointed a quivering finger at Tenna's chest, "You- you don't know what I [£^<#!\&] sacrificed to [fake it 'til you make it!] out here by myself!"

"Yeah, you seem like you sacrificed so much." Tenna spat, also standing up, towering over Spamton despite his shrunken size,  "Your skyrocketing sales and mansion home seem like such burdens!"

"[Stop!]" He yelled, "You- you don't understand-"

"Then make me understand." Tenna's voice cracked as he brought his hands to his chest, "Talk to me; tell me what's wrong!"

Spamton's face scrunched up, and he took a step back like a cornered animal. Tenna's throat worked in the suspense before Spamton's eyebrows curved downwards.

"I- I can't." He snarled, eyes glaring up at Tenna, "It would be [bad for business]."

Tenna paused for a moment, before scoffing.

"And what a great businessman you are! Passed out at your desk and drunk out of your mind, when you promised me you'd be right back." Tenna snapped, face hot, "We're all so in awe of you, Spamton. Some Big Shot you are."

Spamton's teeth ground together and his voice shook, "You don't think that."

Tenna was pushing it now.

He knew he was.

Spamton was drunk. He was drunk and clearly upset. Spamton had angry red lines over his joints. Spamton just had a breakdown on his dressing room floor for Angel's sake.

Something was wrong, but the poison he was boasting was digging into Tenna's wires and this argument had been brewing for a while. Resentment he'd been pushing down for the sake of appearances, with a silent hope that everything would sort itself out, that it was just a one time thing that turned into a two-time thing and so on, bubbled under his metal plates.

"You want to know what I think? That's a first." Tenna hissed, already regretting the words he hadn't even said, "I think you're a sad, little man who leaches off of my happiness and my goodwill and my fucking show. I'm always just trying to help - I helped by bringing you onto TV Time to begin with! - but I think you're too scared of an honest to Angel actual genuine connection with another person that you latch onto that stupid phone because it doesn't have eyes to judge you with!"

He pointed at the phone with a hand bigger that Spamton's entire torso, before pivoting to jab a finger into Spamton's chest, forcing him back a step, "I think you're a coward, Spamton. Just a little man in a big suit who thinks acting like a smug asshole will get him what he wants."

Spamton looked up at him with wide eyes, hands twitching by his side and skin hot with emotion.

"Well it won't." Tenna's chest heaved with emotion, "It won't."

The air felt thick with each breath he took, and Spamton's insulted face - mouth slightly open, eyes glassy - was suddenly the last place Tenna wanted to look at.

"Spamton I-"

"Let me say this in simple words, that you just might understand, [Cathode]."

Spamton's face bruised an hot red around his eyes as he shook with anger.

"I. Don't. [kneed]. You." Spamton growled, puffing his chest out, glaring at Tenna, and pressing his finger into the taller man's lower torso accusingly, "I never, needed you."

Tenna shrank a few inches, face blinking out of existence as he wished for the floor to swallow him up.

"I don't need your pity-!" He spat the word out like it physically hurt him, jabbing Tenna again - higher up due to Tenna's reduced height, "I don't need your care."

Tenna took a step back, stumbling on a heap of pure white steam-pressed shirts, and Spamton followed him.

"I don't need your show!" He snarled, hands flying out on each side of him to draw attention to the room.

"And I certainly-!" His little body shook with emotion, his hand quivering, "-don't need your [Help! P- please, Tenna-? Oh Angel, someone- anyone, help m-!]"

Their argument came to an abrupt pause at that voice clip.

The air was thick with stagnant with heavy breathing and the weight of words spat in angry emotional highs.

Spamton's hands - that had been gesturing wildly with each scathing word - moved quickly to his mouth, cupping his face to try and muffle the recording. Not quick enough, as Tenna stared down at him, horrified, his own hands frozen by his sides.

That was clearly Spamton's own voice. No mistaking the drawl, slightly hoarse with cigarette smoke: but much more shaky and panicked then Tenna had ever heard it.

Tenna knew how those clips worked. He'd bothered Spamton with questions until he cracked and shared the information with Tenna.

They were recordings. Little tics and interruptions that shared perfect replications of audios that Spamton had heard before: may it be an ad read, sound effect or even another person's voice. He had seemed awkward and embarrassed explaining it, but rapidly changed his mood when Tenna gasped and clapped as he mimicked the TV Star's own sentences.

So Tenna knew that each sound byte was a recording of something that had happened; something Spamton had heard.

And, in this one, Spamton had been... pleading. Desperately calling out for help- specifically Tenna's help.

Spamton wasn't a man who pled.

"Spammy...?" Tenna could barely hear his own words, his voice caught in his throat.

Spamton's eyes darted up to Tenna, the panic from earlier emitting from his expression as he kept his hands around his mouth.

"What- what was- that...?" He whispered, "Why would you say that? What... Who?"

Spamton shook his head, taking shaking step backwards, his eyes darting over to his desk. Tenna followed his eyeline and stared at the phone.

"The phone...?" Tenna said slowly, "Your benefactor..?" 

Spamton's flinched, immediately looking away from the desk, shaking his head faster and digging his nails into his face.

"[No stains in sight!] [Ha! Definitely not, big guy!"] [Nope! Nada!]" The clips wormed out from between his fingers, his entire body twitching as each one finished, "[No! No, please-!] [Incorrect_Buzzer.mp3]- [Incorrect_Buzzer.mp3]- [Incorrect_Buzzer.mp3]-"

"Woah, woah-!" Tenna tried, entirely unnerved at the behaviour of his usually cool-headed partner, "Not that; I got it! It's okay-! I- I won't ask!"

Spamton's throat worked, his pulse rushing and his eyes wide, staring away from Tenna. His head jerked as the much more-intense ad tics cut off.

"I... I won't ask, okay?" Tenna promised, arms out, "We- we don't have to talk about it now."

Spamton made a keening sort of throaty noise from behind his hands, before sniffing wetly. The way his hands were angled gave Tenna a perfect view of the red irritated skin one the back of his hands, and the bite marks in his skin.

"Your hands." Tenna pivoted, bending down to closer inspect the injuries, "Can I help-?"

Tenna cleared his throat, knowing how Spamton hated asking for help, let alone receiving it.

"I want to help you. Bandages. Healing." Tenna insisted, looking around, "Do you have any healing items in here?"

Spamton hesitated, his face pale, before shaking his head.

"Okay. O- okay: I've got some in my room." Tenna nodded, holding himself back from giving Spamton's shoulder a comforting squeeze.

He stood at his whole height again, legs creaking.

"We can..." Tenna trailed off, looking down at Spamton who had backed against a wall and was shaking, hands firmly across his mouth.

"I'll go get them." Tenna concluded, dread settling in his gut.

He backed up towards the door, eyes flicking from Spamton who was staring - almost shell-shocked - at the floor, and to the black rotary phone that was still sitting on his desk, silent. His chest churned.

"Don't move."

Tenna warned before he slipped out of the room, rushing back to his own office, the corridor barely registering as he pulled his door open.

He already regretted leaving Spamton alone. He was probably already packing up and leaving; Angel above, why did Tenna leave him alone...!

Tenna burst into his room; his lights blinding compared to the darkness of Spamton's room. His chair was still sitting where it had been when his leg had been jackhammering the carpet, and the vanity that he was obsessively checking his appearance in before leaving the room in an angry huff reflected Tenna's pinched brow and firm frowning face.

He didn't pay them much mind as he pulled the draws of the vanity open, messily rooting through his things and grabbing a small roll of bandages he used to patch up small mishaps if there wasn't time to get maintenance - or, usually, if he didn't want to bother them - and a half-full bag of Dark Candy that Spamton had given to him as a gift for Tenna's sweet tooth.

The analogue clock on his desk was still tick tick ticking away and for the first time Tenna suddenly couldn't deal with the sound of it.

He pressed it face down, not checking the time, before rushing back out of his room.

"Spamton!" He called, hugging the doorframe with one hand to turn tighter and running down the corridor, "I'm coming back!"

Tenna only half expected the door to be bolted shut and chained when he came back, but that didn't stop the wave of relief he felt when he saw the doorframe still open to the room.

He slowed his break-neck pace when he re-entered the room, shrinking down in the darkness and silence of the air.

He stared down at the floor, covered in clothes and trinkets and no Spamton and his heart jumped to his throat.

"Spammy?" He called, voice manic as he searched the room with his eyes, before growling out a question in a sing-song rhythm, "Where are you?"

Panic rushed into his systems again - he'd need to go to the mechanic if he kept this up. Tenna searched under Spamton's desk (the phone hung like a dead man, reflecting the corridor's lights in a sneering grin along it's plastic casing) and smelt bile and sick from the wastepaper bin.

"Spamton?" He whined, face red with anger, spinning around to stare at the open door.

Oh, why did he leave him alone? Oh he's probably half-way to cyber city by now- Angel above, can he do anything right? Can he keep anyone around? 

The Holiday's never show up to watch him anymore (he hasn't seen Dess in months), Asriel barely plays that racing game with Kris anymore, and Toriel and Asgore...!

Tenna wraps his arms around his middle, his hands digging into the healing items shaking by his sides.

Tenna didn't like thinking about Toriel and Asgore.

"Spamton!" Tenna yelled, voice shaking.

He was about to run out the room again, potentially ripping the posters off all the walls in rage, but he heard a soft noise from the closet.

He spun around on his heel, taking a few hasty steps towards it.

"Hello?" He said, the word quivering.

"Go away..." Spamton threatened, but his voice was so small and unlike him - both 'normal' him, and the weird crazed version of him that he'd been acting like.

"Hey... You're okay, you're- you're here...!" Tenna sighed out a breath , peeking around the door and looking down to Spamton on the floor softly.

The Addison was standing, back against the wall furthest from the door. He was halfway through pulling on a blazer - the red one he favoured to wear on stage, or when meeting with investors -   quickening his movement when he saw the light from Tenna's screen blasting down on him. He straightened his posture - now taller, wearing his shing black shoes, though with the laces untied - and flexed his fingers that were hidden under long, white gloves.

Spamton pressed his fingers together, looking up at Tenna with a picture-perfect grin, eyebrows pinched.

"What part of [Go away...] did you not get, [Big Man]?" Spamton scoffed, pushing his hair back in a practiced manor, "I'm not [camera ready]..!"

"Spamton?" Tenna mumbled, looking him up and down nervously, "You...okay?"

Spamton ignored the question, adjusting his sleeves with a little tug down. He flattened down his front with those gloved hands of his, trying to push out creases in his shirt. He then took a deep breath and glanced down at Tenna's hands, making a little noise of appreciation.

"Ah, you got the stuff." He grinned, picture perfect if you ignored the redness on his skin, and his voice was surprisingly smooth.

"Well?" He held his covered hand out, "[Gimme Gimme Gimme]."

Tenna, slightly shell-shocked, let Spamton wrangle the healing items from his hands. The smaller opened the plastic packet with a hand that didn't shake as he walked out of the closet and to his desk, the little saunter in his walk back.

He picked up his mirror from his place on the floor and put it firmly back in it's place on the desk, ignore the fracture along it's front. He frowned at his reflection and stuffed a handful of dark candies into his mouth. Green sparkles burst out around him and the red lines on his face slowly faded away and Spamton grinned. He tilted his face, inspecting his jaw - it still had faint little lines running down it that made Spamton's brow furrow - and fiddling with his collar.

Tenna - who had followed him out, feeling awfully like a lost puppy at the moment - stared and stared.

"Spamton." He insisted, watching Spamton's face tense up in the mirror.

The addison caught his eye in the reflection, fixing his face so fast Tenna could almost pretend it never changed, "What? You want one?"

Tenna looked at the bag offered towards him with a look of confusion.

"No, I don't want one-"

"Why are you still here then?" Spamton rolled his eyes playfully, like it was their normal banter, as he searched through his drawer.

"Because you- you-" Tenna growled, "You can't possibly think I'm going to forget about all that!"

Spamton's teeth grit together, his hands shaking as he pulled out a small container of makeup, flicking it open.

"Of course not, [big guy]. You've got quite a memory." He paused for a moment, "Well, for an [older model]."

Tenna's chest clenched, hands fisting, "Older model?"

"Yeah." Spamton doubled down aloofly, patting a sponge of some white liquid Tenna couldn't name along his jaw, "Love ya, but CRTs aren't exactly state of the art anymore, Tens."

Tenna visibly shrunk - Spamton watching with a pinched brow as he tried to focus on his face.

"Oh." Tenna replied, clipped.

"Tenna, I-" Spamton's jaw twitched again - a odd clacking sound, like wood on wood, emanating from the movement - before he went silent again. He stared at himself in the mirror, eyes haunted.

"Listen, I have a meeting early tomorrow morning." He excused, resuming his gentle patting of makeup against his face with a look of angry determination, "I can't have you bothering me [all night long, baby!], capishe?"

"Bothering?" Tenna repeated, shrinking down again.

"Yeah. [Bothering]..." Spamton took a deep breath in, glancing at his phone, "In fact, I've got a c- call scheduled in thirty minutes. Boring stuff: numbers, stats. You don't want to hear it."

"Spam-" Tenna tried, remembering the broken shards of Spamton's clock.

"[You don't want to hear it.]" Spamton's voice skipped, like a scratched record as he put down the makeup and stared into his own face.

Tenna waited a moment more, but Spamton didn't speak again, and Tenna wasn't stupid.

He knew when he wasn't wanted.

"Okay." He said softly, "Okay, if that's what you want."

Tenna watched Spamton's face twitch in the mirror.

Tenna slowly backed out of the room, stepping over clothes and objects on the floor that were more of an obstacle now he was smaller.

He lingered at the door.

"I- if there's anything- if you need anything-" Tenna tried, staring at Spamton's back, unable to see his face anymore with the mirror hidden at this angle, "I'm. I'm just next door."

Spamton didn't respond and Tenna tried not to sigh at the heavy feeling in his chest.

"Goodnight, Spamton."

Tenna clicked to door closed.

As soon as he did tears that had been pushing against his screen finally broke through.

Tenna's breath hitched and he pushed messily at his face, wetting his gloves as he smelt the alcohol in the fabric and tasted salt. He leaned against the door, muffling a sob, thinking only of Spamton on the other side of the door.

He stumbled back to his dressing room, collapsed into his chair and cried.

--------------

Spamton listened to Tenna run from his room, his own eyes wet again, his stomach curdling despite the fact it was already purged.

He took a shaky breath in, pulling his sleeve up a bit, wincing as he revealed his wrist. He'd been scratching, obviously, but, as he pressed his gloved thumb along the injury, that wasn't his biggest issue. It was like his very skin was peeling up, bloody, and underneath - he noticed with no shortage of horror - that he could see the joint itself. 

"[$!?!]." He swore, the censor tasting like blood in his mouth.

He tugged at one glove, pulling it up and off, and stared, unblinking. It was happening here too, pieces of skin flaking up around each knuckle, and under them was his skeleton, but addisons were beings of pure light so Spamton shouldn't even have a skeleton and- 

Spamton flexed his hand, and grit his teeth at the pain as bits of his skin peeled up - red and angry - and fell onto the floor.

"[$!?!]." He said again, the noise hurting his ears and pissing him off because he couldn't even swear now, "[$!?!]. [$4:99]. [Shoot]. [$!?!] [$!?!] [$!?!]-"

In a bit of a panic he tore the other glove off, and his chest got even tighter as the action pulled more of himself off. He shucked the blazer off into a pile on the floor, inspecting his arms with wide eyes and heaving a shaking breath as fragments of his skin chipped from his elbows. It wasn't as bad here as it was his hands, but it was still happening. Kicking off his shining shoes Spamton whined in pain at the stabbing feeling where his feet bent, running up his ankles and lining his knees - faint but still there - and he unbuttoned his shirt, hands grasping at fur and skin that was shedding from his chest. 

"Oh [$!?!]- What the [$!?!]-" He panicked, tracing a weak line across his stomach and was cruelly reminded of a cow - labelled for each cut of meat before the slaughter.

Spamton's face hurt and he stared back into the mirror - ignoring the red in his eyes, and the shadows in the corners of his vision - and his breath shook as he saw his jaw. The makeup was caked on -thicker than he usually wore - but it still didn't cover the gouges down from each corner of his lips. He pressed a shaking, jointed hand to his face.

Tilting his head he could see lines around his neck, running along the delicate tissue of his throat.

"Oh my [Angel up above]-" Spamton wheezed, voice shaking, "[$!?!]- [$!?!] [$!?!]-"

He looked at his bones, and he ignored his breathing, and ignored the ringing in his ears (Was that the phone? Was it him?), and ignored the guilt in his stomach about Tenna, and realised what they reminded him of.

Ball joints.

He was ball-jointed, like a doll.

Like a puppet.

His neck burned when he turned to stare at the phone, still hanging from the table where he dropped it.

It felt like the plastic itself was sneering at him.

Spamton let out a soft little noise of fear, but didn't try to stop himself when his hand reached for the thing without him even thinking about doing it.

His knuckles stuck out as he grasped it - blood running down to his palm, wetting the thing - and Spamton's heart was in his throat, his brain frozen with fear because he didn't want to answer- he didn't want to call- he didn't want this-

His hand placed the phone neatly back on the receiver with a little beep.

He stared at it, for a moment that seemed to last forever, before, suddenly he could move his hand again, and he pulled back so aggressively he hit his chest with his hand, stumbling away to the wallon the opposite side.

The phone's surface was glossy with blood and Spamton- Spamton couldn't- he- he-

Spamton slid down the wall and, very softly, started to cry.