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Spamton and Tenna stand side by side, smiling at each other while they both hold one side of the giant pair of scissors in their hands. The thick ribbon stands in front of them and their new restaurant. With a flash of a picture, they cut the ribbon.
The crowd of darkners cheer in unison and balloons fly into the sky. Spamton flutters his eyelashes up at Tenna’s grand smile on his television screen. Tenna happily slams the front doors wide open, welcoming everyone into their restaurant.
Round tables shine and shimmer with cleanliness inside. A wooden stage sits against the white brick wall with large red curtains framing the stage, ready to be closed and opened at any time for the stage shows.
The darkners rush inside, lining up at the counter to order as much digital food as they can stomach.
Tenna steps behind his dressing room door to get ready for his next showing. With a slide of fingers, Spamton helps Tenna’s tie slide comfortably into place. A digital smile spreads of Tenna’s screen as he slides Spamton’s tie into place as well.
Day by day, Spamton and Tenna stand on the stage with their own microphones, making the paying customers laugh from their jokes. Some jokes make the customers go wild with laughter, but Spamton and Tenna would subtly blush.
A few times on stage, Spamton and Tenna ditch the microphones to dance together, grabbing each other’s hands. They never step on each other’s toes, even with Tenna’s lack of eyes. Tenna pulls the small addison close, his hand on Spamton’s waist. Spamton’s heart feels whole under his suit. The way Tenna’s smiling and his screen is rose-colored, he can tell Tenna feels the same.
After and before each showing, they share a secret knock on Tenna’s dressing room door.
Rumors soon spread about their restaurant having the best food to eat with families and darkners from all walks of life. More and more paying customers show up to try the food and leave satisfied.
Spamton sits in front of Tenna’s vanity, dark dollars sifting through his fingers as he counts all the profit after each day. Spamton’s gaze gravitates towards the mirror. His gaze stares back at him. Those dead eyes, a charming smile and his messy hair… Spamton pays attention to someone more important.
Tenna’s chest rhythmically rises and falls with every sleeping breath, his legs draping over the side of the couch in the mirror’s reflection.
Spamton’s shoulders slump with a growing gentle smile. He couldn’t wish for anything better than right now.
Shoes click against the clean floor as Spamton holds the script for the upcoming show in his arms. A wide smile crosses his face, knocking two then thrice on Tenna’s dressing room door.
Nothing. No response.
His smile droops, before filling his lungs with hope. Twice then thrice…
No response.
Spamton gently pushes on the door before him. The dressing room door creaks open. It’s as dark as an abandoned void. The shreds of posters barely hanging onto the walls. Nothing inside, but the empty furniture left behind.
The script slips from his loosening grip, spreading all over the floor. “Tenna…” Spamton’s voice barely disturbs the dark gloom.
He sprints into the room, not letting the papers slip him up. He needs Tenna. Spamton strains his muscles, trying to lift the couch from it’s spot. He lets the couch slam down, gathering his breath, before diving under. Spamton throws the vanity aside. The mirror shattering on the floor and the bulbs breaking under the weight. Nothing behind it. Spamton throws open every drawer and closet in the dressing room.
Standing in the middle of a disaster, Spamton’s gaze flicks back towards the broken mirror. Reflecting something back he doesn’t like.
Nothing.
Spamton falls to his knees, his breath growing heavier and heavier. He grasps at his hair, until an idea grabs his attention with a jolt.
He bolts to his feet, running down the hall that seems to grow longer with each step. The rain outside stops Spamton at the front door of their restaurant. Spamton’s gaze flicks around, through the rain with the desperate hope to find a glow. To find someone familiar.
Nothing.
Tenna is gone.
With a hiccup, tears finally fall, making their own tracks down Spamton’s face. He grasps at his chest, slamming his hand down as he screams with agony coiling around his shattering heart like barbwire. Tears rush down like a flood he’s been trying to hold back for the sake of hope.
There is nothing.
Spamton fixes his own tie as he stands alone of the wooden stage. His jokes fall flat. His foolishness doesn’t entertain. The customers stare with a long dead gaze. They can see through Spamton’s fake smile.
It’s too wide. Too uncanny. They say.
Spamton tries to pretend nothing changed and Tenna’s just on a very long vacation, but less and less customers show up after the years tick by. The customers always know when something is off.
It’s not the same without Tenna. Every review chirps.
Spamton’s smile falls, flipping the sign ‘CLOSED’ for the day. He sighs as he rests his hand on the glass of the front door. The rain fall past his hand, making the glass colder under his palm. Spamton stares solemnly out of the windows.
No glow.
He gently knocks on the glass… twice… before his hand falls by his side. Spamton rests his forehead on the glass. His heart aches, waiting longer than he should for someone that isn’t there any more.
Green Pippin rubs Spamton’s back in sympathy, wearing a nervous yet hopeful smile that Spamton lacks.
Spamton’s gaze rises, his eyes focusing outside. The rain continues to pour and drip off of the roof.
Come back, Tenna. Come back… home
For a near ghost town of a restaurant, some customers muster up the pity for the little addison to go eat there. Spamton’s smile strains to make them laugh like the past. His charm falling apart before his eyes. Spamton swings and prances all around the stage to be a fool for them… with a deafening silence following behind.
Suddenly, his body glitches in front of everyone.
The microphone screams through the speakers as it bounces off the wood. Spamton falls to the ground with the barbwire slicing him apart from the inside. He grabs at his sides, anything to keep himself together. Spamton reaches his hand out to Pippin, but they back away with their arms up.
Pippin rushes to the curtains, closing it with Spamton behind. Their fingers slide the microphone to mute it.
Spamton is outdated.
Spamton looks down at his hands, touching his fingertips… wet. His eyes widen. His gaze flicking to the leak in the roof. Water.
The front doors to their restaurant slam open, shattering the glass. The glass cracks under the footsteps he doesn’t recognize.
Spamton wraps his own arms arms around himself, trying to keep his image from glitching. He tries to gather a breath with his face towards the light on the stage. His soaking suit sticks to him.
Wet and cold… until warmth gathers around him like a blanket. It reminds Spamton of how warm Tenna can get when Tenna overworks himself.
Spamton coughs, falling to his side and resting his head down against the wood of the stage. The curtains jerk open to reveal him, but it doesn’t matter. Darkness consumes his vision.
Kris stares down into the tub of rice where their laptop is buried inside.
Toriel rests her hand on Kris’ shoulder, “I think it’s time to get a new computer”
Kris meets her eyes before their gaze darts back to their laptop. Kris brushes the rice off of their laptop. Their finger holds down the power button a couple times, their nose scrunching with frustration.
No response.
Kris slams the laptop shut. The garbage can loudly clangs as the laptop flies straight to the bottom. The screen cracks like a spiderweb.
Spamton wakes in the dirty alleyway, coughing up the rest of the water. He leans against a black garbage bag, making a great cushion for him. Spamton tries to move his legs to go find where he is and possibly find what happened to his restaurant.
Nothing.
His gaze travels up until he sees the far away glow of something he knows. His face sprouts a smile. Spamton’s arm shakes as he tries to grab the glow amongst the darkness. “[Cathode]?” His voice barely travels to disturb the dark.
The glow approaches and intensifies until it’s nearly blinding Spamton. Spamton’s hand finally meets the broken glass of a tv. He barely lifts his head, but he knows that television glow.
“Spamton…” The static on the television delivers through old and broken speakers. The speakers hold the warmth Spamton remembers. “Spamton” the broken speakers deliver hope and love to disturb the dark with instead.
The painful cuts inside start to heal the more Spamton touches the familiar box television. Every vent. Every cord. Everything he knows. Spamton’s hand shivers as he forms it into a ball against the broken screen. He knocks twice… He hesitates before knocking three times gently and slowly.
Tenna’s large hand gently pushes against Spamton’s chest before knocking a response. Twice then thrice.
He remembers
Lightning blinks into the sky, parting the night sky for only a second before more darkness covers the cracks. The laptop lays in front of the shattered glass of the television. The laptop’s keyboard snapped cleanly apart from its screen by the bend, only a single wire connecting. A crack on its screen travels down with a pop-up ad that refuses to fade. Together they lay, surrounded by trash and black garbage bags piled high at the dump.
Nothing can keep them apart… even without eyes.