Work Text:
A blank piece of A4 printer paper. A ballpoint pen, slightly chewed at the end. A dull pencil with a mostly used up eraser.
Only three things sat on the desk in front of Spamton, found after scrounging through drawers and cabinets in Tenna’s room. They were three very simple things, completely trivial to anyone else. But for Spamton, the objects seemed like they held an infinite amount of weight.
He eyed everything nervously, a subtle glitch shifting the pixels in his face momentarily when he nervously clenched his jaw. He could just pick up the pencil right now, and do something with it.
Draw something. Just like old times. It could just be a doodle. An incomplete sketch. Anything.
Anything at all, and yet even that small hurdle felt like too much.
Spamton looked behind him as if he expected someone, namely Tenna, to be around the corner, watching and scrutinizing his every move. He looked up at the wall, just to make sure someone hadn’t snuck in to install a camera. He wrung his hands together; if he wasn’t a puppet, they’d be clammy from how nervous he was.
This was pathetic, really. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A grown man, afraid to make a little doodle on a piece of paper. Terrified, even.
But… he had good reason to be afraid. He hadn’t attempted to really sit down and meaningfully draw something in years. Messily painting the wall in his shop with nothing but his bare hands during a manic episode was one thing, sitting down and intentionally using a pencil to draw lines and shapes together in a way to create something visual and recognizable out of nothing but a vision in his head was something completely different.
Even if he tried, what would he create anyways? He had been antsy to try and draw again while bored out of his wits in Tenna’s house while the other was out running errands, but now with the materials in front of him, the well of inspiration had dried up completely.
Worse still, the thought of his talent having gone away after all those years he spent in the dumpster made Spamton’s stomach turn. He didn’t know if he was ready to find out whether his skill was there or not.
Spamton let out a bitcrushed sigh as he leaned his elbows against the desk and buried his face in his hands, dragging them up until they went to smooth down his hair. Deeply embarrassing.
It didn’t matter if things were… different now. He was off the streets, somewhat mentally sound. He should be able to brush off everything. Recover. Snap right back up. Get back to normal! Spamton G. Spamton was never down for long! He just needed to-
“[Pull yourself up by your bootstraps!!!]--” His thoughts finally spilled out as an unintentional ad outburst, and Spamton had to quickly slam his jaw shut.
…So, maybe things were a bit different. Different in ways that couldn’t be changed. In ways that no amount of recovery and time could fix. The thought alone made the puppet shiver and made the idea of trying to see if he could still draw borderline nauseating.
Get your shit together, Spamton. GET. IT. TOGETHER.
Spamton squeezed his eyes closed after shifting his dealmakers to rest on the top of his head, trying his hardest to clear his mind. It was lame, but Tenna’s recent advice of trying to “clear his cache of thoughts” while having a glitching episode or burdened with intrusive thoughts actually had some merit to it. It didn’t work 100% all of the time, but it usually helped him calm down enough to get back in semi control at the very least.
With his eyes closed and with the focus, he could begin closing out all of the thought tabs (and the insane amount of popup ads) in his mind. The constant noise of his internal monologue and commercial jingles slowly fell silent. Even his ugliest thoughts, about how broken he now was and how he was just better off dead, were muted and minimized.
Just. Focus.
But just as Spamton was about to open his eyes and finally give drawing a shot, a memory filled the place where all of the thoughts and ads once were. It was hazy and undefined at first, and he almost closed out of the thought tab in order to keep his mind clear, but something about this memory felt… warm. Familiar. Something from his past that, for once, he didn’t want to immediately suppress and forget about forever. It already put him at ease in a way that nothing his own mind could conjure up in ages.
With his head buried in his hands over the desk, he sighed and opened the memory, letting it full screen in his mind.
…
Spamton had never been an introverted, shy type. He was an extrovert at heart. He had to be, talking to people and selling things and making deals and networking was the whole point of his existence.
But after a particularly lengthy studio after-party following a shoot for TV Time that had gone overtime, he felt exceptionally drained in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. He was extremely glad when, at the tail end of the party, Tenna had nudged him with his elbow and nodded towards the doors in a “lets get the hell out of here” way.
So there they were, locked away in Tenna’s dressing room together. The lights were dim and filled the room with a very soft, subtle yellow glow. The pair were on the big green couch in the middle of the room. Their red overcoats were thrown on the back of the couch haphazardly.
Spamton had never been so happy to be out of a crowd of potential paying customers and connections. He felt a soft headache creeping up on him, one that he knew that smoking the cigarette Tenna had offered him would exacerbate. So instead, as stress relief, he had kicked off his shoes, curled up a bit while leaning on the couch’s armrest, and was mindlessly sketching away with a random notebook he grabbed from a table, with a very cheesy TV Time branded pen.
Tenna, on the other hand, was talking away while smoking the cigarette that Spamton had denied. His sleeves were rolled up, the iconic yellow tie around his neck loosened for the first time all day. Instead of sitting down with the other, he was leaning against the arm rest, his corded tail draped down and resting on the couch cushion, the end twitching around every once and a while as he spoke.
“And maybe next time we could cut that third segment from 25 minutes to 20,” The TV darkner was saying. “Because by the end, we were really sore for extra time for the most important stuff. You get what I’m sayin’, Spam?
Spamton just hummed and nodded. He was usually just as talkative as his partner, quick to shoot back with his own ideas and opinions, but on this night, talking seemed like too much. His throat stung, his cheeks were sore from the big smile plastered on his face for the entire day. The dim lights of the room were making him kinda sleepy.
He was more than content to listen to Tenna’s ramblings as he drew.
Tenna continued after hearing the small response from Spamton, not pressing for anything further. “Oh, and did you notice how the boom mic was a bit low about halfway through? I gotta talk to the sound department tomorrow about that, and make sure the guys in editing can crop it out if it made it into the shots. It’s like, we’ve been over this, people! The mic is more sensitive than you think! You don’t have to shove it in my face, in fact, you can bring it up 5 inches higher than you think you need to!”
Spamton hummed again, but he was laser focused on his work, which was coming together slowly. With each careful stroke of the cheap pen, his doodle of Tenna sitting on the armrest of the couch, cigarette in hand, was slowly coming together.
Because he was using a pen, everything he put down was permanent. Mistakes were unable to be whisked away and hidden using an eraser. It made the drawing looser, messier, but Spamton liked the challenge. He peeked over the edge of the notebook at Tenna every once and a while, making sure that he memorized every curve of his TV monitor, the exact endearing bend in his left antenna that was always there, no matter how many times they straightened it out. The way his clothes fit him, where it was tight and where it was loose.
The way Tenna smiled at him so, so softly every time he went to look over at him, even if he was complaining about something.
It made Spamton grin too, especially when he went to put down the little smile line Tenna had, no matter how soft or subtle his smile was.
Tenna was always an interesting subject to draw. Maybe that was why he drew him so much. Yeah… definitely no other reason.
Pink blush crept across Spamton’s cheeks as he remembered the amount of sketches of Tenna were hiding away in his dressing room’s drawers.
Tenna noticed his change in demeanour instantly, and stopped talking to stare down at Spamton.
They both made eye contact.
For once, Spamton didn’t hurriedly look away.
“What? I got something on my screen?” Tenna joked, then took a drag of his cigarette.
Spamton scoffed. “Yeah, your stupid face.” The first time he actually talked since they had gotten to the dressing room.
Tenna cheekily stuck his tongue out. “Jealous of my good looks, I see! Get in line, mailman! You wouldn’t be the first.”
Spamton rolled his eyes, but knew that was probably true. Although, a creeping hint of jealousy came up, thinking about anyone else appreciating his CRT like he did. Before he banished the thought away deep deep down, he realized he hoped that the way he appreciated Tenna was somehow different and more unique compared to everyone else.
Tenna leaned in closer, trying to take a peek at the notebook. “Whatterya drawin’?”
In response, Spamton instinctively hugged the notebook to his chest, looking away from the other as hot embarrassment made his face regrettably very red. “None of your damn business, Cathode. Nosy ass…”
In the past, this might have made oh-so-sensitive Tenna frown and shrink and sulk away, but not anymore. They knew each other like the back of their hands. He knew the hostility wasn’t personal.
Tenna smirked, having put the pieces together instantly of exactly what Spamton was drawing. He knew not to linger on it, because Spamton was certainly the type to get up and walk away if too uncomfortable for too long. In fact, he felt himself twitching and tensing up as if getting ready to run for the door if he needed to.
Luckily, Tenna got the hint not to mention it any further. Instead, he properly sat down on the couch and crossed his legs. He draped his arm over the back of the couch, and leaned his other arm against the armrest, flicking cigarette ash onto the floor. “Alrighty, then. I won’t push. Just, make sure you get my good side, ‘kay?” He winked. But Tenna didn’t have eyes, so his way of winking was a downward flick of one of his antennae. “So anyways, I’ll also have to go to the editing department for…”
The tense moment was swept away quickly and expertly by Tenna, and Spamton let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It took him a second to relax, but once he did, he realized the new pose that the other had put himself in was perfect to draw. Definitely as intended. He was glad that he didn’t bolt out like he momentarily, impulsively wanted to.
So, Spamton slowly flipped to the next page in the notebook, slowly beginning to draw again. A new angle, new folds and creases in his clothes. A new position of hands that he would have to stare at several times to master in his art.
With each new scribble of his pen, light at first to get the basic shapes down, then darker once confidence grew, his subject came to life on the page. His wide shoulders, important to his figure. His loose shirt collar around his neck. His iconic yellow shoes, one up and bouncing mindlessly as he talked, the other planted on the floor.
Focusing on drawing made all of his worries and anxieties and even his tiredness melt away. Spamton felt his brain blissfully go on autopilot, letting himself continue to hum in acknowledgement of Tenna’s yapping at the perfect times.
After a longer period of looking at the paper, Spamton looked up at the other to make sure he’d gotten the proportions of his head right against his body.
A red flower had bloomed at the tip of Tenna’s nose.
Neither acknowledged it. They didn’t have to.
The flower was added to the sketch with no hesitation. Really, it brought everything together.
…
Spamton opened his eyes. He stared at the blank page in front of him.
He hadn’t thought about that night in a long, long time. It was too much of a painful reminder of everything he had lost since then. Nothing particularly grand or impactful happened that night, yet it was one of his favorite memories of all time. It was maybe the most peace and contentment with life he had ever felt.
Thought tabs began to crowd his mind again, negative at first, but slowly became more positive.
I’ll never get the feelings I had that night back again.
I’ll never draw as good as back then.
We’ll probably never share a moment as good as that ever again, not with all my stupid ad tics. Not with the baggage.
…But what if I just tried?
Yes… Yes! What if I still got the talent? What if it really never did go away?
Maybe I’ll actually be good enough still, and [10% off] will sit and let me draw him again!!
Like the good ole days. Yes… yes!! YES!!!!
A (slightly manic) surge of optimism flooded the puppet, and he smiled wide, beginning to laugh to himself.
“HEAHAHAHAYAHEAHEA!!! I BET I’LL BE [As good as the name brand!] EVEN AFTER ALL THESE [Yearly SuBscRIB!!!]--YEARS!!! I just gotta…. GO-TT-TTA [Try, try again!]!1!11!!"
Laughing manically, he grabbed the pencil and brought it to the paper, not caring anymore about what exactly he would draw or if it would be good or not.
Pencil lead to paper. Lines and marks appeared.
Dark. Ugly. Incomprehensible. But it didn’t really matter.
What did matter, however, was that Spamton was beginning to become too excited. Not only negative emotions could cause him to glitch, he found out long ago. Any extreme emotion was enough to do it.
His hands began to shake and jerk around unpredictably. His pixels began to glitch out more and more. Determined to keep drawing despite his state, he tried to push through, but it only made things worse.
His jaw clenched hard and locked itself there as a large, violent glitch caused his body to spasm. He needed to stop and collect himself. He needed to-
Rrrriiiiiip.
Spamton paused, and waited for the static snow to leave his vision before he looked down.
The paper, once pristine and perfect in front of him, was wrinkled, covered in deep dark scribbles, and torn straight in two.
He blinked. Okay.
Minor setback. This didn’t mean anything. He still definitely was able to do it, he just needed to calm down more first.
Another piece of paper was quickly found and replaced the torn one, which was thrown into the trash.
This time, Spamton took a deep breath before he started. He tried his best to keep the weight he was putting on the pencil lighter, and managed to get a simple shape down: the square of Tenna’s head.
Before continuing, he looked at the shape, scrutinizing it. It wasn’t perfect. At his peak, he would have been able to draw the silhouette of Tenna’s monitor with his eyes closed. He quickly erased it, and tried again.
Not perfect. Too wide.
Erase.
Try again.
Still not perfect. Too round.
Erase.
Fuzzy static began to creep into his vision again. He tried extra hard to keep the image of Tenna in his mind, but it kept glitching out, and instead of something happy or neutral, he started to remember all of the times Tenna had made a sour face at him.
Like the face of pure disgust he made when he saw him again for the first time in over a decade. When he had called him a freak and laughed at how utterly terrible Spamton had looked. Tenna had since apologized for how he reacted over and over, but the memory still felt raw and terrible. He had never felt so small in his entire life.
He had stopped drawing after tearing a hole in the new paper from frantic erasing. Instead, he was shaking and clutching his hair with his fists, the pencil still in hand. A small, distressed sound escaped his mouth as the awful memory replayed itself over and over again in his mind. No matter how many times he tried to close the thought tab, it wasn’t going anywhere.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK, FUCK,-
He could feel the beginnings of a panic attack begin to break through, and did everything in his power to stop it.
It took him a while, but he found that Tenna’s other piece of advice of counting to 50 and starting over if the counting got interrupted by a bad thought, glitch or ad outburst helped him through it.
Stupid [Cathode]. Of course you’d find a way to be the source of all my problems AND my solutions.
Paper two was crumpled and thrown away. Paper three replaced it, and by then Spamton had decided that maybe trying to draw Tenna was out of the books for now. It was… too hard. Both physically and mentally.
Instead, Spamton decided to draw something much simpler. A bird, he had landed on. He loved birds, he had since he was young and still did after all that time.
Spamton took a deep breath again, made sure his thought cache was as clear as it could possibly be, and attempted to draw again.
He started with the head. A bird’s head was typically quite small compared to their large, feathery bodies, so he tried his best to account for that. A little beak. Round, beady eyes. Good enough. The pencil, gripped tightly in his fist, scraped its away along on the paper. Too light in some areas, too dark in others, wobbly, unsteady, messy. But Spamton tried his best to overlook it and continue.
Next, the body. Most birds, especially small ones, had big, round bodies. Spamton tried to hold the mental image of the easiest, most generic bird he could, but his mind kept indiscriminately switching from something more pigeon-like, to a crow, to an eagle. He bit his stuck out tongue as he focused harder than he had in years, especially on the wings and their feathers.
The feathers were the hardest part, and he used up what remained of the eraser trying his best to make it resemble wing feathers even a little. But because of how hard he was pushing down on the pencil, the lines never erased clearly, leaving dark smudges everywhere.
“[&#!$],” Spamton cursed under his breath as he saw the mess he was making, but he continued on anyway, despite the process strangely leaving him lightheaded and out of breath from how hard he was focused.
He decided not to attempt the tail feathers yet, and instead focused on the feet. Bird feet were long usually, and stick-thin with weird claw toes at the end.
But Spamton certainly did not have the control to draw all of those small, intricate details. What ended up coming out onto the paper as the legs was incomprehensible chicken scratch, bad enough to make a kindergartener’s drawing look like the next Mona Lisa.
The entire time, Spamton’s free hand gripped the desk so hard that his small claws scratched the surface.
The pencil lead had dulled completely at that point, and without a sharpener, Spamton took the time to drop it and lift up the paper to see what he had drawn.
He frowned. At least, as much as he could frown with his permanent puppet smile.
What was drawn out in front of him looked absolutely and undeniably, positively, absolutely,
BAD.
VERY, VERY bad.
Spamton dropped the paper. It floated down gracefully back onto the desk.
This was bad. It was dire. This was the result of him at his absolute peak focus and effort. This was the best he could do.
Luckily, thankfully, before an unstoppable, violent panic attack that would surely lead him to finding a way to cut off his hands set in, his head whipped around when he heard the sound of jingling keys unlocking the front door.
Tenna came inside with an arm full of groceries and his signature big stupid smile plastered on his face. Spamton really, really didn’t want to admit it, but seeing him instantly calmed him down a bit. He was happy to see him, like it or not.
“Hey, hey!” Tenna said after closing the door behind him. “Sorry I was out for so long, had to take care of a couple things on set. I got some groceries so I can make your favorite dinner, though!”
Spamton wanted to smile and giggle and kick his feet a little for being thought of in such a mundane way, but he kept his cool. “THE [Thoughts and prayers]-s IS APPRECIATED,” he responded, turning away from the other to quickly put away the drawing and the pen and pencil. He didn’t want to have to feel the double embarrassment of Tenna seeing his absolute failure of… could you even call it a drawing? It was more of a scribble. A disaster of a scribble, at that.
Much to his dismay, however, as Tenna was walking to the kitchen to put the groceries down, he passed by the desk and saw Spamton hurriedly trying to hide what he was doing. His antennas perked up with interest. “You trying to pick up drawing again!? I'm so glad!!! I always loved that little hobby of yours!!”
Spamton cringed. He grinded his teeth together and tapped his finger on the desk. “MAYBE. [WHOO WHOO says the owl,] knoWS>.”
Tenna, instantly picking up on his defensiveness, thankfully didn’t even try to look at what he was drawing. Instead, he put the bag of groceries down on the kitchen counter, then came back into the room. He began looking for something in one of the drawers of a nearby dresser.
“I’ve got more than just that old pencil,” He said, rummaging through the drawer before he pulled out a handful of better drawing supplies, including fresh pencils, a proper separate eraser, and a small pencil sharpener. “I think I got some painting stuff around here somewhere, too. I just gotta look around for it.”
Spamton watched as Tenna looked around, biting his tongue as he decided whether he should say anything. His first attempts at drawing were such a catastrophic failure and the concept of trying again made him feel like shit already, but trying to stop Tenna when he was being so genuinely nice to him would feel equally as bad.
He opened his jaw to try and speak, but his words got caught up in his throat. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted. A little more practice couldn’t hurt, but now Tenna was home to be there and potentially watch him fail…
A fate worse than death. He needed to start proving to Tenna that he still had it. That he could be just like his old self. That just because 15 odd years had passed and a worsening, terrible glitching disorder had ruined his life didn’t mean that he couldn’t get his act together. Those were just excuses! All of the pieces were there for Spamton to get back to normal, he just had to grab them and put them together, no matter what or how long it would take.
So, he decided against saying anything, and let Tenna do his thing. When he had found everything he could, he set them down on the desk in front of Spamton.
The pencils and the sharpener, a thin lining marker, three paint colors and a brush, a pack of colored pencils, and a nice stack of new printer paper all were placed down in front of the puppet. Spamton eyed each new thing nervously, as if they all had a mind of their own and were somehow aware of the atrocity he scribbled down earlier. And definitely judging him for it.
“There we are!” Tenna said with a smile and a curl in his antennas. “That should be all I have, but if you want, I can take you to get some more things. If we don’t have them down on set or in storage, we can go buy some!”
The offer was extremely, sickeningly sweet, especially to someone who was on the verge of quitting art and amputating their hands so he could never even attempt to curse the world with his creations again. But instead, Spamton tried his best to look and sound grateful. It was something he was trying to be better at. “THIS IS [airtight] FOR [buy NOW to get 15% off!] -- [We appreciate your patronage!]- THANK-> [YOU and your FRIENDS,]....!-- {[MUCH ABLIGED!]}--” He cursed under his breath at the interruptions, but Tenna was patient with him. He tried again, focusing as hard as possible to get the words out without the disruptions. “TH@aN. K. Y. OU>/.”
Tenna gave Spamton’s head a reassuring pat, careful not to ruffle up his carefully brushed hair. “Anytime! Now, I’ll leave you be while I cook dinner. Just get me if you need anything else, alright little mailman?”
Gods, Tenna and his sickening little pet names. A light hint of blush made its way across Spamton’s cheeks, and he quickly nodded in response, playfully swatting the larger darkner’s hand away.
With that, Tenna went into the kitchen and began to do his thing, leaving Spamton alone again.
He began to wring his hands nervously again. But this time, Tenna’s blissfully unaware optimism had given him an, albeit small, new spark of hope.
And so, with one of the new pencils in hand, he tried again.
In the kitchen, Tenna had turned on the radio. Faint 80s and 90s hits began to play, accompanied by the sound of chopping, then onions sizzling on a hot pan. It served as even more inspiration, as encouragement. Look at Tenna, so well put together and normal after all these years. His cooking skills hadn’t waned even a little bit. In fact, they had gotten better. Spamton could be like that if he tried.
A piece of paper was hastily crumpled up and thrown at the trash. The ball of paper missed and bounced onto the floor. Try again.
Other people had it so lucky. So easy. Did they know how lucky they were to wake up and go about their silly little days and do their stupid little hobbies without thinking about it? For Spamton, he had to WORK, and work HARD to do a fraction of that. No one in the world worked harder than Spamton G. Spamton. That, he was sure of. He was unkillable. Unshakable! The most resilient!
Even with his hand tremors and tics and crippling, life altering disorders. He. Could. Do it.
Somewhere in the kitchen, Tenna was mindlessly singing along to the song on the radio.
Another piece of paper crumpled and discarded.
The paint caps came off. Red, yellow, and green. Trying to actually paint a subject with them… useless, Spamton realized. So, he grabbed the brush and simply tried to spread the colors out evenly over the entire paper.
A new sound of eggs being cracked against the corner of a skillet.
The brush was gripped in Spamton’s fist. His hands shook. The paint layered on unevenly. A lyric on the radio reminded him of something, which triggered an ad tic episode. His arm jerked causing the brush to fly off the paper and onto the table.
No matter. Clean it up and try again.
Back to the paper. Focus, focus, focus.
The sound of pepper being grinded up. Something being flipped in a pan.
Spamton was gripping the brush so hard that the wood of the handle began to splinter in his hand, which he ignored.
Another involuntary jerk of his arm led him to throwing the brush down in frustration and pouring on an extra large glob of paint, then spreading it around with his fingers.
Another song came on. Hey, he knew that one. He and Tenna used to listen to it together, even. When everything was different.
Spamton gasped and choked. Garbage noise escaped his plastic puppet jaw, and he clawed at the table to keep stable. The fragile, paint soaked paper was ripped to shreds. There was paint everywhere, including on himself.
It was fine. He could still do this. He COULD. Everyone else could, and so. Could. He.
As much of the messy paint paper as possible was scooped up and thrown at the garbage with more force than intended.
HE COULD DO THIS.
His dealmakers were beginning to cloud up with static as he went through several more pieces of paper. Most ended up ripped, others became trash with unfixable mistakes after a tremor or ad tic.
A drum solo over the radio. Tenna turned the volume up a bit, obviously liking the song.
It reminded Spamton of the live band that used to play on TV Time.
Snap!
One of the pencils became his next victim. It was thrown across the room.
Maybe the radio as background noise was actually a curse.
…No. Everyone else can handle a little music while they worked. Spamton was no different. HE WAS NOT DIFFERENT.
Another paper torn through from the force of a pencil. He didn’t realize there were tears in his eyes.
A cabinet opened, and the sound of plates clacking together.
He also didn’t realize that he couldn’t see anymore, and hadn’t been able to for a while.
His eyes squeezed shut. He suddenly registered a pounding headache. He gripped the sides of his head with his messy, paint covered hands and whimpered, trying to will his vision to return.
When it did, he saw the mess in front of him. Pen and pencil markings were all over the table and visible everywhere the paint wasn’t. Every single piece of paper had been gone through and thoroughly destroyed. None of the papers had anything remotely legible on it. At some point, he had stopped attempting to draw and was just scribbling on the paper as hard as he physically could.
His hands were shaking. This was bad.
He had tried. He had tried and wanted it harder than anyone. Yet he just physically… couldn’t do it.
Spamton slowly slid off the chair. He felt dizzy and weak. He felt his breathing quicken, the thought tabs becoming out of control. When he closed one, another opened. They even began to manifest outside of his head, appearing around him. They all were saying exactly what he already knew but was trying so hard to overcome.
You’re stuck like this. Forever.
The puppet slowly fell to his knees and put himself in a corner. Every other sound around him was replaced with intrusive thoughts and the roaring sound of garbage noise. So, so much static. He couldn’t breathe, no matter how much he tried. He was drowning. He was dying. He could almost feel the swirling cord of a telephone around his neck, which caused him to start clawing at himself to try and get it off.
It seemed miles away, but he heard footsteps approaching him. He flinched away in response. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this.
A voice. It sounded like he was underwater and someone from the surface was trying to talk to him.
He buried his face in his hands.
Fuck off. Don’t look at me.
A large, gloved hand on his shoulder. Spamton snapped his head back up, and his blurry vision barely registered Tenna’s screen.
Deeply, deeply embarrassing. He spoke over whatever the other was saying. “[ACCE$S DEN!ED.] → [STAY A MIN!MuM 0F] ;!##* [1000000000 feet] [{{AW@Y}}!} [At a+ll t!me-e-e-es.]>!!!!”
Much to his dismay, Tenna shook his head. He crouched down next to Spamton, but made sure not to loom over him. The look on his screen was one of concern and.. Was that pity? Spamton desperately hoped not. He did NOT need to be pitied.
Tenna tried to speak again, but the static and buzzing in Spamton’s ears was too loud for him to hear. It was like trying to hear someone talk though a wind storm.
Instead, Tenna started to put up his fingers with his free hand, as if trying to count.
Spamton immediately knew what he was trying to say. He wanted him to do the “count to 50 with no interruptions” thing, which felt incredibly silly and childish at the moment. So at first, he refused, shoving Tenna’s hand away.
Tenna took the hint that he didn’t want to be touched, but stayed by his side. The stupid [cathode]… He wasn’t going anywhere until he got what he wanted, was he?
Spamton looked up at Tenna angrily to try to ask him that non verbally. Tenna immediately seemed to understand what he was trying to ask, and gave an encouraging smile.
The puppet sighed deeply. He was too tired and drained to fight with him. So he began to count.
“O… One. t-two. [BUY 2 GET 1 FREE!!!] [!#&%!!*!]” He wanted to hit the side of his head with his paint covered fist, but he knew the disapproving glare from Tenna he would get if he did that would just make him feel worse. Instead, he just clenched his jaw and started over. “ONE…. TWO…. THREE…. F..FOUR.”
He didn’t know exactly how long it took him to calm down enough to continue counting over 10 without ad tics, but soon focusing on the counting distracted him from the panic and fear. By the time he was in the upper 40s, he had uncurled himself and was sitting beside Tenna while blearily staring at his feet. Tenna hadn’t tried to say anything for a while.
“Forty five. Forty……. Six. Forty s-seven. Forty eight. Forty nine. F-fi-fifty.”
Spamton blinked. The episode had passed. He hated how much that method worked. Immense shame filled every corner of his mind where the ugly thoughts once hid, and he avoided looking at Tenna directly.
He expected that he would have to then lay out what had happened and why he had gotten so upset, as Tenna usually asked for after he had calmed down. He felt red hot embarrassment trickle in with the shame.
But instead, Tenna stood up and offered Spamton his hand. “Come on, let’s wash your hands and eat.”
Spamton gave him a confused look, but slowly rose to his feet and took his hand.
Tenna helped Spamton wash as much of the paint off his hands as possible, but even after a few minutes of scrubbing, the white plastic of his hands was still stained.
Tenna whistled the entire time as if nothing was wrong, which confused the puppet darkner even more. Was he just going to ignore everything this time? Maybe it was for the best.
Finally, the pair sat down across each other at the table. Spamton laid his head down next to his plate, feeling too tired to eat, but he did feel the slightest twinge of happiness when he saw what Tenna had made: steak and eggs, which was indeed his favorite dinner of all time.
Tenna had even cut up the steak into smaller bits for Spamton, knowing that he had a harder time chewing with his much weaker puppet mouth.
He appreciated it. He really did. But he also really didn’t feel like eating.
Tenna seemingly still had an appetite after that sickening display of theatrics however, and he was dipping a cut piece of his steak in the runny egg yolk. “Perfect medium rare. How you like it, right? You should try it, even if it’s just a bite.”
Spamton looked up at the other sadly. He sniffled. “NOT [Hunger for MORE].”
The other hummed in satisfaction as he took a bite of his meal. “You sure? ‘s good. You’ll like it. Promise.”
“[Feeling down? No energy? No passion for the things you once loved to do? Antidepressants might be right for you.]”
“Come on, Spam, Just one bite?”
“[OPTION CURRENTLY UNAVAILABLE.]>”
Tenna leaned forward against the table, putting on his best puppy eyed look. “Pleeeeeease? Pretty please? I made it special for you…”
Arguing was becoming more grating than just doing whatever the CRT said. “[fines and fees]. IF IT WILL. GET YOU. TO [Shut your TRAP!]”
Not bothering to use the fork placed next to him, he used his fingers to pick up one of the bits of steak and bit into it.
The flavor was on point. It was tender and juicy. A bit luke warm from sitting out for longer than intended, but besides that, perfectly cooked. Seasoned to perfection. Melted butter and herbs were definitely used to baste it.
It was exactly then when Spamton realized how utterly starving he was. Much like Tenna, as a puppet he didn’t necessarily need to eat, but eating sure did make him feel better, and he remembered his problems were much more manageable with a full stomach. Maybe Tenna knew that, too. Maybe that was why he was pushing him so hard to just try a bite.
But Spamton wasn’t worried about the semantics any longer. He immediately perked up, grabbed the fork, and started messily shoveling down his dinner as if someone would take it away at any moment. The yolk in the sunny side up eggs was perfectly runny, and the creaminess paired flawlessly with the steak. This meal was his favorite for a reason.
Before Tenna was even halfway done, Spamton had cleaned off his plate and was using his paint stained finger to swipe up any extra egg yolk. The only thing that could have made it better was an ice cold glass of whiskey, but he was trying to get sober. The cup of water Tenna had provided was good enough to wash it all down.
When he dared to look back up at Tenna, he was giving him a sickeningly sweet look, much to his dismay. “[Whataburger] aRe y-yOU LOOKING AT, >[Cathode screams]???”
Tenna chuckled before he took another bite of his own meal. “Heh heh, there's the mailman I know and love. So, how was it?”
“[10/10,]” Spamton admitted as he buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t lie. It was one of the best things he’d eaten in recent memory, although that particular bar was set very, very, VERY low.
“I’m very glad to hear that!” The two sat in silence for a moment while Tenna finished the last of his food. When he did, he pushed his plate back and locked his fingers together, giving Spamton a softer, more concerned look. “So. Now that you’ve eaten. Can we talk about what happened?”
Ah. Right. Spamton gazed sheepishly at the living room where the mess from his tantrum still sat. “AH…… I….” It took him a while for him to gather the right words and put together what he wanted to say, but he had to admit it was remarkably easier to do so after he had eaten. “TRIED [and failure] TO DRAW AGAIN>:. LIKE… [Good food, go0d times.]... !> BUT…BUT…” The puppet squeezed his eyes closed. Unfortunately, a full stomach didn’t do much to mask the still raw emotion at failing to do something he had tried so hard to do. “I. DON’T. THINK I>. CAN. ANY[More more more!].”
Spamton’s words fizzled out and he was left looking at his hands. His once perfect, smooth hands covered in a layer of well manicured peach fuzz were now small and segmented and ball jointed. They creaked no matter how much oil he put between the joints, and sometimes he would wake up with them bent out of shape, which always freaked him out even if it didn’t hurt him.
It was just one small part of his changed, strange puppet body. His killer looks that had gotten him hundreds of love letters by fans in the past was now stuck in a creepy, unnatural smile with his blocky teeth always exposed. His iconic cheek blushes, once carefully patted on with pink makeup each morning, were now permanently affixed to his cheeks and an unnatural, gaudy bright red. His body was changed so much that he often refused to wear anything that wasn’t baggy and hid his form. His hair, once his pride and joy and meticulously taken care of, was now permanently wiry with an odd texture, and obviously made out of the same kind of cheap fake plastic that a dollar store toy doll would have.
“I’M N0T. JUST. [The difference will amaze you!-]>#. I’M… SOMETHING N-NEW… ENTIRELY. I G-G-GUESS I [1--% satisfaction guaranteed!].”
When he finally finished talking, Spamton looked down at his empty plate, determined not to meet Tenna’s gaze, which he could absolutely feel boring down into him. They sat in silence together for a moment, which made Spamton uncomfortable. Tenna seemed like he was thinking extremely hard about how to go about this. His antennas swayed side to side as he thought. He absentmindedly chewed on the inside of his lip.
He kept making subtle glances at the diaster in the living room. Truly surveying the damage, Spamton supposed.
The longer the silence went on, the more uncomfortable the puppet felt. Luckily, just as Spamton felt the need to brush everything off as a joke in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, Tenna finally spoke.
“You’re… You're right. You’re absolutely right.”
Ouch! “RUDE!” He said with a mean glare towards the CRT.
Tenna quickly waved his hands, realizing how bad that must have sounded. “N-no, wait, let me try that again! That not… well, yes, that’s what I meant, but… okay. Just listen.” He took a deep breath before he continued.
“You are different. It’s true. You’re not the same person as you were before. And you never will be.” When Spamton shot him an even nastier glare, he held up his hands as if telling him to wait. “And, that fact is never gonna change. No matter how hard you try. So, what are we left with? Well, the way I see it, you have two options. A, you get stuck on that fact forever and wallow in abject misery for the rest of your life. Or, B, you try your best to accept it, and you accommodate for your new issues and problems. You throw everything you knew about yourself and what you could do out the window, and you start from scratch, accounting for who you are and what you can do right now. It’s true that you can’t do everything you could do 15 years ago. Hell if I could, either!
What I’m trying to say is… Maybe art is not something you can do exactly as you did it back then. That’s when you find alternatives. Workarounds. Ways that work for you, as you are, specifically. It’ll be different, I’m positive. But I figure it’s worth a shot, no?”
Tenna rested his head on the top of his hands, and looked down at Spamton as he waited for him to respond.
Spamton, offended at the words and harsh truth at first, then deeply considered the words being spoken to him.
The thought of giving up on trying to be who he used to be was… deeply saddening. It felt like he was failing himself. His past self, at least. It wouldn’t be something he could simply do overnight, but luckily it seemed like Tenna understood that as well.
But realistically, he was right. Spamton was different. To ignore that fact and think he could easily do everything he used to with no issue was foolish.
It was true. He could either wallow in that real, deep pit of abject misery over that fact for the rest of his life, or he could take Tenna’s advice.
Spamton looked up at Tenna’s screen, his expression softening to a more open and understanding one. One that showed he was truly listening to what he was saying and considering his words carefully. “T..T…[10% off]-- [Ten]. I…” He scoffed to himself, then smoothed down his hair with his hand. “YOU ALWAYS. KN0W. [exact change] WH@T TO S-S-SAY.”
“I’m glad,” Tenna said with a soft laugh. “I don’t have a script for any of this, ya know? But it hurts me seeing you so down. I really am glad I can… be here now. To try and help you.”
Spamton took a breath, and let the gratitude he was feeling for his CRT partner take over all of his thoughts without resistance. He smiled wide, something much more genuine looking than his usual smile. Something love-sick and wobbly and crooked. He was so, so very glad that Tenna was at the point with him that he was more focused on finding solutions than dwelling on his (not so infrequent) meltdowns.
“You know what? I think I got just the thing for you. Why don’t I go find it while you eat some of the dessert I got for us? I’m sure that’ll help ya feel even better!”
The dessert in question was an entire fresh key lime pie, Spamton’s second favorite dessert behind a classic New York style cheesecake.
Tenna had gotten up and gone to look for something while Spamton dug in. Tenna was right about that too, the dessert was absolutely making Spamton feel better and better with every bite. He didn’t even bother cutting himself a slice, he simply cut off pieces of the whole pie with his fork. It was creamy and sweet, and Spamton was very glad that giving up food like that wasn’t necessary for all of the life enhancing accommodations he now knew he had to make.
When Tenna came back, he pulled up a chair next to Spamton and sat down. “Hey, greedy, save some for me!”
“[press Snooze] YA LOSE, [BOOB TUBE.]” Despite his words, Spamton cut off an extra large chunk of pie and offered it to Tenna, which he happily ate off the fork.
Once the two had gotten through half the pie together, Tenna set down what he had gone and gotten from the other room.
A tablet. A stylus to go with it. Spamton gave the two objects a strange look before looking up at Tenna questioningly.
“Just hear me out,” Tenna started. “So, after everything went down, the lightners gifted me this, ah, computer tablet. Because they thought I was old and needed a taste of 21st century technology, I guess? Anyways. I never really use it because it’s too hard for me to figure out how, and trying to learn gives me a freakin’ headache!! But! You're a bit more tech literate than I am, and I know there are a few drawing, uhhh, what are they called, App-lih-kay-shuns, on here. So, if real paper and pencils can’t work for ya anymore, why don’t you at least give this a shot?”
Spamton picked up the tablet as Tenna talked to him, and turned it on.
Was Spamton technically the more tech literate one here? Yes. Had he realistically used any technology past 2010? Not really?
When the screen turned on, he thoroughly examined what he was looking at. The tablet was very new, and the user interface was surprisingly easy to get used to. With laser focus and hands only sometimes shaken by a tic, Spamton managed to quickly get used to using the tablet, and before long, had a drawing app downloading.
Tenna watched his every action, leaning over the smaller puppet darkner. They were right up against each other, and while Spamton would usually shy away from someone hovering over him, this time, he didn’t mind it at all. In fact, he found himself leaning against Tenna ever so slightly. In return, Tenna’s cord tail had snuck up and was resting on Spamton’s lap.
If this was a piece of what his new normal had to be like, then maybe things weren’t going to be too bad after all.
With the app finally downloaded and the tablet’s stylus gripped in his hand, he opened up the app.
A white blank new canvas took up most of the screen in front of the pair. The side bar held several tools, the brushes, eraser, crop, a color bar…
It was a lot, even for Spamton. New. Which wasn’t necessarily bad, but it was a bit overwhelming.
Tenna picked up on the other’s hesitation, and nudged him with his arm. “I know, it’s giving me a headache too. But just try to draw something with the tablet pen!”
The tip of the stylus slowly approached the screen, but before it could make contact, Spamton hesitated.
Thought tabs of ripped papers and destroyed pencils began to cloud his vision, and he took another nervous glance at the mess in the living room. Before nervousness could overtake him however, he felt a reassuring hand rest on his shoulder. He looked up at Tenna, searching for solace.
“Hey,” The CRT said gently. “Just try. If it doesn’t work, then we can move onto something else that does end up working for you. Alright?”
Spamton took a moment to catch his breath and clear his thought cache, then nodded in agreement. “[Sounder] GOOD. T-TO ME.”
He began to sketch aimless lines just to get a feel for how it worked. The lines came down clean, cleaner than anything he had managed to do on real paper. No matter how hard he pressed down with the stylus, the brush settings made it so the strokes were only so big.
His eyebrows raising in surprise and curiosity, he attempted to sketch out a circle. When the shape reminded Spamton of the round ends of Tenna’s signature antennae, he winced and blurted out an ad. “[TV Antennas for sale!!!] [Buy one Get one 50% off!]-” He had to clamp his jaw closed with his hand, which caused the stylus to jerk around uncontrollably.
Tenna didn’t so much as flinch, luckily.
When he felt himself back in control, he took a look at the screen and groaned in frustration at the unintentional extra line he made. Time to use the eraser.
But instead of smudging everywhere and barely hiding the mistake like pencil lead and rubber, the digital eraser cleaned up the line to where there was absolutely zero sign there had ever been a mistake there at all.
Spamton let out a soft gasp of surprise, and Tenna ooooooh!-ed.
This was life changing, really. Spamton looked up at Tenna again, his shiny eyes seen through his dealmakers. “DIDJYA [Catch it at 9/8 central] TH@T??” His small tail was thumping up and down against the chair under him for the first time all day.
“I did!” Tenna responded, giving Spamton’s shoulder a little squeeze. “That’s a real game changer, huh? Let’s see what else this bad boy can do!”
Together they sat in the kitchen, tangled in each other’s embrace, for the next hour as they navigated through the art program and all it had to offer. An entire back and forward button was quickly discovered next, making it even easier to get rid of mistakes. A color wheel and several pre-set palettes had more colors than he could ever want or use in a lifetime. There were more brushes and textures to draw with than Spamton knew what to do with, and there was even a reference feature, so he could pull up images from the internet to use to help him draw. No more relying on his constantly shifting, unreliable thoughts. He could zoom in and out on the entire canvas, which would make drawing smaller details much easier. Best of all, in the app settings, there was a stabilization feature, so no matter how hard he pressed on the screen or how unpredictable his movements became, his lines would stay much, much more consistent and stable.
It was new, yes. A bit daunting as well. But it was also exciting. This really seemed like a new solution to all of his issues. There was something about the app that didn’t scratch the same itch that drawing on physical paper had, namely the texture aspect, and reminding himself that he needed tons of help and accommodation to do something that came so easily to him in the past was certainly hard.
But… This was good. Great, even. He could work with this.
I can't do everything exactly how I used to anymore. And… that’s…
He looked up at Tenna one last time, and the other responded by smiling down at him and nuzzling his nose against the top of Spamton’s head.
It’s sad. But it’s okay.
After they had gotten to a good stopping point, Tenna got up from his seat and began to collect the plates and the pie from the table. Spamton didn’t realize how much he liked Tenna’s warmth until it was gone, and the kitchen seemed almost cold in comparison.
“Why don’t you clean up the living room while I clean up the kitchen, and then we can get ready for bed so you can try out your new tablet for the rest of the night?” Tenna said, putting the dirty dishes into the sink and turning on the water.
Spamton groaned at the thought of having to clean, rolling his eyes dramatically. “WHAT AM I, a [Live in maid services near you.]??” He complained, half jokingly.
Tenna whipped around and gave him what Spamton instantly recognized as his ‘don’t piss me off’ forced smile, which also reminded Spamton that while Tenna was very kind and understanding, his patience wasn’t endless, and he surely wasn’t thrilled with what happened in his living room.
Spamton took the hint and jumped off the chair to start cleaning as well. “JU-$ST A JOKE!”
…
The living room took ages to clean, and a few spots of paint and pencil markings still remained on the desk, but Tenna seemed satisfied enough with the job to let him come to bed with him.
With renewed hope, full from a big dinner and dessert, and his favorite oversized TV Time branded shirt on as pajamas, Spamton crawled into bed beside Tenna. The larger darkner opened his arm to invite him for a cuddle if Spamton was in the mood for it, and he absolutely was.
Spamton propped himself up on a pillow with the tablet in his lap, ready to begin a real drawing. Tenna laid next to him, his screen dimmed and pressed up against Spamton’s side. His large arm draped over the puppet, which worked as a perfect support for his tablet.
The lights were dim. The light from the tablet and Tenna’s screen made the room glow softly. It made Spamton a little sleepy, but he was determined to try and get something down before he went to bed. A picture of a pigeon was already up at the corner of the screen as a reference image.
“I’m really glad we could find something that works for you,” Tenna purred, pressing his screen further into Spamton’s side. His hand thoughtlessly caressed Spamton’s torso and stomach, occasionally causing his oversized shirt to ride up and Tenna’s now gloveless fingers to graze against Spamton’s bare skin (plastic?).
That’s when Spamton remembered something.
“[CATHODE,] I. NEVER SAID. [thank you very much!] 4. THE [ipad pro 5 now on sale near you!]. S-SO. THANK. Y0U>.”
Tenna smiled sleepily, and raised his monitor up just enough to kiss Spamton’s cheek. “ 'Course. I'm real glad it's working out for you.”
Spamton blushed again, but this time, didn’t try to suppress or hide it. “A-AND/!. YoUR [Free advice]. [Appreciated value,].”
I just wish I could convey better how much it meant to me.
How much your support really means to me. Without all these stupid ads and glitches inturrupting me.
“Heh, well I do try. Just take it one day at a time for me. Alright?”
“[ALL RIGHT.]”
Moments later, Tenna was in sleep mode, and Spamton was alone with his thoughts again.
“Sweet [Cathode Dreams],” he whispered, before focusing back on the tablet.
With the silence and darkness of the room, he found his mind surprisingly clear in a way he didn’t have to focus hard on maintaining. Maybe music and lights were something that were now off the table for him if he wanted to draw now, too.
He looked down at the sleeping darkner next to him. He still wished he could draw him more than anything, but that was something he would have to work up to. The pigeon as his subject would have to do for now.
His hands still got tremors every now and then, sometimes he pressed the pen to the screen too hard. He still cursed under his breath at every mistake, before realizing how quickly he could start over and try again. Slowly, ever so slowly, he relaxed and found his groove, so laser focused on his work that the ad tics and glitches came down to zero.
A head. With puffy cheeks and beady eyes and a small, thin beak.
A body. A puffed out chest and round form. The wing feathers were still a bit of a mess, but much more recognizable this time, and could be fixed and tweaked as many times as he needed.
The feet, thin and detailed, clawed at the end. The ability to zoom in as much as he needed helped tremendously.
A tail this time, too. Short, and in between the tips of the folded wings.
When the sketch was done, Spamton zoomed out to look at his work.
Messy. The wrong proportions in some places, ill-defined details in others. Maybe the eyes were too big and the wings were too small.
But, most importantly, at the end of the day, it resembled a bird. One could look at it, and certainly, easily register it as a bird.
A wide smile crept up on Spamton’s face. He could cry. It was imperfect, but a massive step up. A really, really good start.
Maybe… I actually still got it…!
His smile stayed as he saved his doodle, then immediately opened up a new canvas to start all over again.