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Spamton couldn’t help but notice something was off.
Every ad break, he found something new. The occasional hesitation in Tenna’s step. A voice crack or an exclamation that was a tad too much. The way the host trembled when he had to stay still. (Was he struggling to contain his size, or something?) How the chatterbox to a fault didn’t say a word in his direction when they switched places. The cameras could hide a thing or two, but the crew? They’d have to be blind to not notice if Spamton did. Yet nobody said anything. The Weather Duo was a smidge less affectionate, perhaps? If they weren’t simply fighting again.
His suspicions were confirmed when Tenna barely waited for the curtains to close before blipping away.
He was grabbed before he could storm off after him, but he wrenched himself free with a death glare. Someone had to do something about this. If they cared about their fucking boss, it wouldn’t have to be him.
That anger calmed down by the time he reached the Green Room, replaced by jittery anxiety. What the hell was going on? Not in the mood to have more employees see him like this, he lowered to all fours and tried to slink through.
“Luv’?”
It was quiet, but it very much stopped Spamton in his tracks. Ramb had an eerie habit of noticing everything. “…Yes?” he whispered his way, hoping the plugboy wouldn’t comment on how fluffed up he was. Or be loud enough to attract attention from anyone else.
“No booze for the big lug today, ya? Off limits. He’s not in his right mind as it is.”
Spamton nodded hastily before disappearing into the hallway. Why would— Why would Tenna be forbidden from drinking? He was an adult, for Angel’s sake. If anything was wrong with the host, he needed to know, stat. Nobody watches ads for a show if the host looks like he’s going to tremble out of his skin. Chassis? Whatever.
It wasn’t long before he arrived at Tenna’s office. He might’ve been speed-walking. Or running. No matter— it took him only seconds to find the spare key to his bedroom. Like the cheesy fucking dumbass he was, Tenna kept it under an out-of-place doormat.
When he cracked the door open, the lights were off. Of course. His rotten luck for this to be the one time the CRT didn’t retreat to his r—
“Please leave.”
…Or not. That squeak sounded awfully like its owner was just sobbing his heart out.
“I— I don’t want you to s-see me like this.”
Spamton rolled his eyes and stepped inside, shutting the door. “We fucked, Cathode.” He grasped semi-blindly for the nightlight switch he knew was somewhere around there. “I was shoulders need in your goddamn chest cavity. There’s nothing I haven’t seen,” he scoffed.
Finally, the lamp blinked to life.
Tenna laid in the middle of the bed, blanket an absolute mess underneath him, clutching his ant plushie. That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. However, he was smaller than the plush in question. Spamton’s silence must’ve meant something to him, because after few moments, he choked out a sob and buried himself deeper into the minky. "D—Don’t— Please don’t look at me."
He expected him being sick, or maybe finally overworked, not misery of this degree.
Spamton should leave. He didn’t know how to comfort people— and he’d be trying to console a dead man walking, anyways! What difference would it make? …But it would be right— better for the show (and his business, of course) if he tried, wouldn’t it?
Nobody better say he wasn’t a philanthropist.
Already regretting it, he hoisted himself onto the bed, sitting down at its edge. Legs dangling in the air. Giving Tenna at least a sliver of privacy was probably a good idea. “W—What’s wrong, big guy?” he tried, immediately wincing. Not the best choice of words.
Silence. Spamton wasn’t far from sweating bullets.
“…Me.” Barely a whisper. Then, a crackle and a flash of light. Spamton whipped around, zeroing on the hand tightly clutching an antenna. “I’m wrong!” Yank. Flash and a crackle. “All of me!”
Spamton grabbed his arm. Tenna huffed angrily between sobs, but didn’t raise his other hand to his head either. With another growl, he yanked the arm out, clutching the plushie. Between the force and his claws, stuffing was starting to come out.
“Hey, you’re— you’re a perfectly fine CRT, Tens.” He wanted to rub his back, hug him, anything, but was too paralyzed with the thought he’d fuck up the situation further to move.
“Not that,” Tenna bristled, finally turning towards him. He shot up about a foot. His screen was dark, only a sharp snarl breaking it up. Light reflected off two messy tear trails. “Today! E—Everyone is with someone, o-or they want to, and I have to stand on the stage a-and pretend like I’m the same, like I’m not…” He shrunk again. To his previous size, and then further. “…broken.”
“You’re not—” Of course it was Valentine’s. He was so stupid. He’d known Tenna was insecure about this, and he still didn’t connect the dots! Fucked it up, failed, like he always did. “Just— Don’t do it next time? If it’s making you feel this bad, then j-just— Skip on the specials!”
Tenna let out a humourless chuckle, curling against the stuffed ant again. Nearly disappearing under it. “I’ll sooner turn normal than that.”
Normal. Fucking… “Normal”. Spamton was going to strangle this guy. “What’s stopping you?” He tried to sound genuine, but it came out stilted.
“Spamton— I’m just… I’m just a box plugged into the wall,” Tenna tried to explain, his voice cracking.
“And? You’re the boss of this box, as far as I know! And besides, it’s fine. Nobody here would judge you, have you seen your staff? Being mad at you for something like this would be—”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Tenna grew so fast, he hit his head on the ceiling. Spamton felt his soul hammer in his chest, pressing himself into the mattress. But instead of anything menacing, Tenna hissed and held his head, slowly shrinking again. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what is okay here. N—Not for me,” he choked out. “I just— I just relay things. They want a show, they made a show, and I have to give it to them. If I decide not to— Well! It bleeds out! Because it’s me they’re watching! Whatever I do, whatever I am, whatever they put on—” Tenna ran out of breath, heaving. Spamton scuttled closer. “It doesn’t matter if nobody in the studio cares. Most Lightners aren’t like that. The Lightners making the shows aren’t like that. And I— I have to—”
Spamton reached out for a hug. Tenna startled, reappearing by the headboard before quickly burrowing under the pillow. “A TV that doesn’t tune into the Valentine’s Day specials is… Is… d-defective.”
“Can’t you… write around it?” Spamton had seen him pour over scripts before. How much… “Isn’t that what you do with the rest?”
“Y-Yeah.” The tone didn’t sound hopeful, though. “B-but there is only so much I can deviate, you know?” Hic. Spamton flinched as he heard something scraping. “I-I don’t even normally dislike r-romcoms and stuff. It’s acting! It’s a ch-character I’m playing! O-of course the romantic genre would have romance, I d-don’t mind that, but…” His voice was crackling, fuzzy. Lapsing into static. “But when I’m the host. I-it always gets to me, no matter how hard I try— The couples. The buy one get one free. The sad looks you get for not having a partner, like a part of you is missing and—”
And that you’re a freak for wanting something else, Spamton finished the thought.
Fuck.
He’s never been the target of these, not directly. But he’d seen enough of this attitude while figuring himself out, scouring the internet for whatever would explain how he could even exist. The glimpse into the Light World wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows. And Tenna had it poured into him constantly. Spamton was no longer that surprised he was hellbent on controlling almost every aspect of the production.
The pillow shook with quiet sobs, panicked mumbling having trailed off.
He could take the hint. Leave Tenna to cry himself unconscious.
With a sigh, Spamton scooted closer, offering the tip of his tail. He’d be lying if he said he even knew why he was still doing this.
Tiny hands cautiously buried themselves into the fur, as if Tenna expected him to pull back. He didn’t. Slowly, Tenna surfaced, curling around the black tuft properly. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I’ll— I’ll be fine, I’ve d-dealt with this before. The show tomorrow will be like nothing ever happened.” Even with the gentle tilt of his screen he always did when trying to be reassuring, the dark screen was anything but. “Y-you don’t have to waste your time on me.”
“Yeah, no, bullshit. I’m staying right here.”
Finally, Tenna gave up the fight. Dropped the pretense and simply laid down. He didn’t let go of Spamton, who didn’t really know what to do next. Petting him was out of the question — he’d definitely end up hitting the sensory bulbs, and he’d learned Tenna didn’t take well to that the hard way. A hug? He’d crush him, at this size. God fucking damn it, his Benefactor gave him no advice for this shit.
Spamton was torn from his thoughts when Tenna started kneading his tail. Like a cat. “You’re— You’re really fine with me being like this? Even if I’m defective?”
“Cathode, you are not defective.” It is not a defect to not be what people decide you need to be. It is not a defect to not be— “You’re fine. I’m fine. I haven’t heard a single mean remark from the crew today. You’re fine.”
“M-kay.” He sounded exhausted. Perhaps not entirely convinced, but probably the best he was getting. At least no more arguing, or questions… His “experience” be damned, he didn’t know what else to say.
Spamton sighed and leaned against the headboard. Might as well get comfortable. Come on, pick something, something calm, inoffensive, meandering… Something. “Hey, do you want to hear about previous-me’s mailman days?”
The response was entirely unintelligible.
“If that wasn’t a ‘yes’, too bad. ’Cause you’re gonna hear about them anyways.” He knew Tenna liked letters. Hand-made and sent stuff you could embellish and sign and things like it. He could leave the details about junk mail out and make the rest up.
He was in the middle of a rant about different types of printing inks and mediums when he noticed quiet snoring.
Tenna fell asleep to a bedtime story like a kid. That was the plan, but still, it might’ve been? Kind of?
Adorable?
So he let him sleep like a kitten. And as any good cat owner, he didn’t move out of fear of waking him until he fell asleep himself.