Chapter Text
So maybe Spamton shouldn't have stayed at the party or gone at all when he had a morning commercial slot in Tenna's show, and maybe he shouldn't have drunk so much, but sue him for knowing how to live! Can you blame the little guy for going big after all these years of being tiny?
Spamton thinks not!
… But none of that really fixes the fact he's bursting through TV world after having haphazardly parking his cundagero. He hasn't checked the time out of hope he's somehow made it despite the digital clock reading early noon.
By the time he gets on backstage, Tenna's wrapping up the morning show with his usual spiel. The mailman grimaces at the earful he'll receive from Tenna, but his attention shifts to said CRT on stage. Inky eyes narrow on the slightly - and he means marginally - smaller form of his partner; the way his shoulders seemed raised a tad too high for comfort and the way Tenna's words occasionally hitch.
“Hey," he leans towards the shuttah, “Is something up with the old CRT?"
The camerathing shrugs, "Mr Tenna hasn't said anything if there is, not that I can tell,” it mumbles back all hush hush, refocusing its attention on the capturing Tenna and the crowd.
The TV host quickly wraps it out before making a somewhat rushed escape. Spamton scrambles after him, "Tens!” the crt perks up at his voice with a happy swivel on his feet, only to remember he was late by three hours, and promptly spin back on his heels.
"Aw, come one cathode, don't give me the cold shoulder!” He tries to catch up with the taller Darkner's ridiculously long strides. Tenna keeps his pout firmly trained away from Spamton, tail lashing behind his every step (even its movement is a little slow for his agitation), “Tenna?"
“..."
With a sigh, Spamton stops dead in his tracks to utter what he's sure his partner wants to hear, “Fineeeee, I'm sorry I was late, I'll make it up you to later,” that gains the hosts attention, his tail perking up, “Promise!" He adds with a wink when Tenna finally turns to see him.
Unexpectedly, Tenna does not drop his pout for a smile, nor does he relent with a hug, rambling about how much he misses Spamton and how fun their little segment would be together. Instead, the crt just keeps walking forward in silence, leaving a baffled mailman in his wake.
Spamton wonders if the silent treatment is more due to the almost imperceptible symptoms that Tenna had been exhibiting, “Hey, Tens, you feeling alright?" He asks as he jogs to catch up with him.
“I'm fine." Tenna swallows thickly as he speaks, words strained now that he's off camera. Spamton raised an eyebrow, eyeing the sheen of sweat glistening in the light of his screen, “You sure? You don't look so good."
Tenna simply turns away from him again, pout dragging across his face further. The mailman feels a hint of annoyance surge the longer the silent treatment continues. He pushes it down for the concern for his partner instead, “Tenna, I'm serious. You don't look so good."
He tries appearing in the crt’s vision, only for the darkner to swivel away each time. He feels like a toddler trying to get his parent's attention, and it's kinda oissing him off, “Look big screen, if you're gonna be like that, then I'll just go home for the day."
Affronted, Tenna gawks at him, "You can't do that! You just got here!” he startles when Spamton leans in to study his face, humming to himself and tapping at his screen. Tenna immediately backs away, remembering his silent treatment game and crossing his arms, but Spamton is worried about other things at this point.
"Your screen is dimmer than usual, and you're really hot.”
“No it's not—my screen’s as dazzling as it always is.”
"Tenna. I'm serious. You're ill. If you keep overworking yourself you won't be on the show for long!"
Spamton's always hated how much of a hard worker Tenna is. He didn't mind at first, seeing as it barely affected him. But the more he watched, the more pitiful it got. Tenna worked and worked endlessly to entertain the Lightner's with a passion no one truly understood the depths of.
And look, Spamton himself is a hard worker. He does try. He follows the mysterious voice’s every command to the letter. He's the one that found that opportunity and snagged it. He's the one in Queen’ mansion, looking down in his competitors, and he's the one hauling his ass from cyber city to TV world to keep up with his and Tenna's deal. But Tenna's motivation creeped him out at times.
He slept minimally until he collapsed, and when he got back up after an entire day out of commission, he went straight back to work. He'd deny being ill no matter how obvious it was until they had to cut to ads in the middle of a show, hiding a doubled over or passed out Tenna. And the weirdest thing was the hours at night - when the studio's lights were out - he spent staring up at nothing.
“It's their house," he’d simply responded when Spamton had asked once. Spamton didn't get it, and didn't care for it so late at night.
(Later he'd learn it was the light world Tenna studies so closely, and boy was he jealous, but also infinitely curious.)
It had taken months of Spamton forcefully dragging the crt to bed or keeping him down to get Tenna to relent and pay a little more attention to his health.
But maybe he was making backward progress today, “If we get a repeat of last time, I'm not helping you, capiche?"
Tenna’s shoulders hunch even more in response to Spamton's half hearted threats, "I don't listen to stragglers,” he shot back snippily, standing abruptly. Spamton doesn't miss the way he sways and quickly covers his mouth. At his expression, Tenna storms off towards the stage.
With an aggrieved sigh, Spamton resigns himself to the inevitable moment when Tenna collapses on stage and they'll have to cover with reruns and Tenna’ll whine about how much of a smug "I told you so” Spamton is while clinging onto him for dear life.
He watches from backstage, displeasure obvious in his curled back lips as Tenna tries to get into the feel of the show. He stumbles a little in response to a light shining directly on him, hissing at the source before wiping the accumulating beads of sweat in his screen.
He tries, “For this next segment, we hav—” until his words are abruptly cut off. In a panic, a gloved hand covers his mouth, the other cradling his midriff. Spamton signals for them to cut the cameras. He rushes over just in time to hear the crt retching, doubled over as staticky fluid spills by Tenna's feet.
“..." He stands there for a moment, letting Tenna's gut expel whatever he had for breakfast (if he even had breakfast, Spamton thinks bitterly), tapping his foot like the spiteful little shit he is before taking pity on his partner. He gently rubs circles on the other’s back, rapidly shrinking in response to Tenna's pained groans, “Come on, let's get out of here."
Tenna complies easily. His fingers press on his screen as if to catch any fluid leaking down his canines, muffling his whimpers. The other lets Spamton guide him to the green room where leftover employees scatter away at Spamton's barking orders, albeit grumpily, some of them surely questioning his authority in a place he wasn't originally from.
Well fuck ‘em, Spamton thought because he was Tenna's partner and quickly becoming the other half that ran the show. Sure, Tenna was always going to be the front of TV time, but Spamton steadily fed it with ideas (and maybe a little help from his benefactor) until more Darkner's started tuning in. Besides, he was Tenna’s partner - on equal footing with the crt - not some employee. He had some power in TV world, graciously granted by Tenna of course.
Spamton quickly got Tenna to lie down on the couch when it was becoming clear he couldn't take any more steps. The darkner, about only a head taller than him, groans with an arm covering his rapidly dimming screen, “Ughhh… spammy, my stomach hurts…”
Resisting the urge to rub it in, Spamton instead pats Tenna's casing, "I know big screen, I know. Let me know when you're feeling better and we'll go to your room." He motions for Ramb, who quietly sighs, an amused smile plastered on his face, though his gaze lingers on Spamton, like it always does. The plugboy brings him a bucket before heading back to his bar.
Spamton ignores the eyes still trained on him, tapping the bucket absently until he hears another gag, and suddenly Tenna's up straight like a bolt, fingers pressing on his mouth. The Addison thrusts the bucket in Tenna's lap, wincing at the nasty, painful-sounding retches, fluid splattering on metal. Tenna gives a few wet coughs before heaving again. His arms snake around the bucket to clutch it tight against his gurgling stomach.
With a grimace, Spamton starts rubbing circles on his partner's back. A few seconds later, Tenna throws up again, his moans and groans vibrating under Spamton's hand that reached up to rub his head, “Yikes, and you really thought you could perform today?”
"Shut up…" Tenna slurs into the bucket, earning a snicker from Spamton. A few minutes free of any retching or gags, he asks, "You feel up to a little trip down the corridors?" Tenna nods slowly. He gets up even slower with the bucket flush against his abdomen. Together, they (mostly Tenna) hobble at a snail's space. Spamton stops every so often when he realises the heavy steps behind him stop, waiting on his partner who drags himself and his limp tail like a man on death row.
The Addison opens the door to Tenna's personal room, a mess as always: if Tenna was meticulous about almost everything - especially the show, then his room certainly wouldn't reflect it. But that was only because it was barely lived in. Strewn across the floors were sheets with half finished ideas and reviews, the kinda things Tenna worked on and then promptly discarded when they didn't look right. Since he barely visited, Spamton supposed Tenna didn't really care to maintain it. It still hurt Spamton to see and hear the week old wrinkled sheets of papers under their feet.
He helps Tenna gently lay himself on the bed, lest he spills the vomit bucket on himself and his sheets, then plops himself on the other side. Tenna places the bucket down to gingerly rub his stomach, curling up on his side.
“You finally learnt your lesson about pushing yourself too far?"
All he received is a groan, which is fair. A gloved hand waves at him. Spamton stares at it blankly for a bit before realising what his partner wants. He leans over to unfasten Tenna's brilliant red blazer, slipping it off from the other in one smooth motion. A relaxed sigh that escapes the crt, whose tense shoulders lower a fraction.
Spamton finds himself just laying in the silence between them, an eye on the very weak Tenna, or maybe just staring off into space with little to do. Really he's just been holding in the urge to smile smugly and whisper “I told you so," in the crt’s already sensitive antenna.
A whimper from Tenna drags his attention back down, “Spam… why is it really hot? Did you turn on the heaters…?” As he slurs the words, Spamton notices he's shivering. He had noticed how hot Tenna's screen felt. He reaches over to press a hand on his partner's screen and grimaces, "Yikes, that's a nasty fever too. What did you do to get like this? Did the weather duo mess up their reading?”
Tenna reaches to keep his hands on his screen as he sluggishly manoeuvres to face him, "I don't knowwww… Elnina and Lanino never get their readings wronggg…” he hums at the feeling of Spamton's hand on his feverish screen.
“Then ‘the heck's wrong with you?" The Addison begins shifting closer to more comfortably accommodate for Tenna stealing his cool hand to himself.
After a moment of thinking, face scrunching into a pout (damn it was it adorable, Spamton thought with a scowl), Tenna’s screen brightened a bit, “Oh… last night, I think Kris wanted to share pie with me… so they tried to feed me some… it was really good… but I felt really sick after that…”
“Huh??? How does that happen?!" In what world does a lightner try to feed their inanimate objects?? “Were they trying to kill you!?"
Tenna shushes him, presumably from the headache rolling around in his cathode ray tube from having his internals messed with, “They… they didn't mean anything by it… I think they tried to shove some in my tape slot… it did taste good though… really nice… It’s magical in flavour…”
With a sigh, Spamton leans back on the bed, grumpily mumbling to himself, “‘Magical’ my ass, that shit’s got you under the weather.”
“Then it’s.. magical “under the weather” pie… and it’s the best…” comes the muffled and probably very delirious response from the overheating TV host.
“Well, no wonder you're out of commission,” the mailman concludes with finality, “You're staying here until your internals are in working order again, and you're not going out only half recovered,” he starts fluffing Tenna's pillow for both his head and antenna. He then brings the covers halfway over the shivering darkner, “If I catch you up and about before you’re recovered I’m tying you to his bed.”
"Nooooo… it's finally the weekend—I want to… I have to spend time with them…” Tenna whines. Spamton taps him gently on the head, earning a very sluggish swat, "Yeah? And how are you gonna do that looking like you've just been run over?"
“Don't be meannn… I don't—I don't take orders from you…”
" Well, you're gonna have to start.”
Tenna huffs at his quip, “Big words from someone late…”
The mailman pinches the bridge if his noise as a surge of annoyance hits him, mixed with resigned amusement at his partner's pettiness, "Hey, I said I'm sorry already.”
"You were probably out partying while I was suffering… and you missed your segment, so I had to improvise while my head and stomach hurt…”
He pats the Darkner's head as another rumble from his stomach causes him to shrink further, sweating at his partner’s very correct deduction, “Right, right, like I said, totally my bad. And I'll make it up to you,” he leans down to scoop the very warm crt in his arms, now small enough to fit in the crook of his elbow easily, "I'll stay here with you until you're better and I'll take care of you. How does that sound?”
A satisfied hum is all he gets, alongside Tenna nuzzling into his arms.
Spamton decides that's a yes, so he hums to himself, rhythmically patting Tenna until he switches off and his breathing slows.
“You rest up, Big screen."