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Tenna’s dumb fuckin’ smile was almost as offensively bright as the canary-yellow tie he insisted on wearing every day on TV. Between that, the red jacket, and the vague blue cast to his silver casing in the studio lights, he might as well have been a preschool playset.
Of course, the whole look was entirely different with Spamton’s dazzling white fur and coal-black hair, and he almost felt bad for pulling off the look twice as well as Tenna ever did.
…He was getting real sick of this mirror calling him out on his bullshit.
Getting real sick. Calling him out. Bullshit.
Spamton dropped his face into his hands with a groan. He wasn’t sure if he could even get through the broadcasting day like this.
“Spam?”
The spin-and-grin Spamton launched into wasn’t even conscious. “Tens! What’s the word?”
Tenna shut the door behind him, and Spamton, he knew where this was going from the way Tenna’s smile spread into fondness and fangs.
“Ah, c’mon, I just straightened out my tie,” Spamton said, but there wasn’t any bite to it, and he was already headed for the chaise lounge when Tenna grabbed him by the waist and swung him into the place he belonged.
Belonged? Sick. Getting real sick. Bullshit.
The static from Tenna’s screen brushed fuzzy kisses all over Spamton’s face, and the whine was so much more audible up close. White-gloved fingers flexed around his back, tracing lines down to grab his thighs with a touch that tried to be gentle, but pressed in hard enough to bruise.
“We’re on in fifteen,” Spamton said, but,
“They can run another ad or two,” Tenna replied, the vibrations of his speakers rumbling through his chest underneath Spamton’s body.
Spamton’s jacket hit the floor, then his tie, and then there were fingers the size of his entire hand drawing proof of love, burning it into his fur, as he used his own to undo a tie larger than life.
Proof of. Larger than life. Calling him out. Bullshit.
They almost forgot the most critical part of the whole act—and then Spamton remembered and turned the dial in a rush, just in time to bury Tenna’s voice in the static of a dead channel. It swelled and filled the room with a whole lot of empty, but it was better than the alternative.
Someday, probably, everyone would know. But for right now, they were business partners, and this was a meeting.
The sounds of static poured out loud enough to be heard in the hallway. Spamton winced and slammed his hands down over the speakers, barely putting a dent in the sound. This part felt more right than any of the rest of it, this knowledge that he was a dirty little secret.
Dirty. Sick. Larger than life. Calling. Bullshit.
They wrestled their half-removed clothes back into place, picked up the pieces they’d abandoned, and got ready to put on a show.
Tenna was standing right next to him. Tenna was wearing that stupid fuckin’ smile and straightening his canary-yellow tie and he looked just ridiculous enough to make Spamton feel a little better about the deception that lined his pockets.
“Hey… Spam?”
Spamton looked up at the face of TV, framed by glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the black ceiling.
“I was just wondering… you know, the deal we were discussing…”
Calling him. Getting real sick. Belonged. Bullshit.
“…Yeah.”
Tenna clearly wasn’t ready for that one. His whole body straightened out.
“Really?”
“What the hell. Yeah, Tens. I’ll bite.”
“Oh, Spammy!” Tenna picked him up and spun him around, ignoring the protests that fired off from Spamton’s foul mouth.
“All right, all right, calm your coils,” Spamton grumbled, a smile fighting its way onto his face.
“Okay, it’s—oh, shoot—we have to be on set five minutes ago—we’ll talk after!” Tenna said as he ran for the door.
“You got it, Cathode.”
Calling him.
Calling him.
Dirty. Sick.
Calling him.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
The receiver fell out of Spamton’s hand.
He’d never been a selfless guy. It just wasn’t in his nature. He looked out for himself and himself alone. The other Addisons left him no choice, given that he had to claw his way up—
No. That was wrong.
He took the easy way out, and now he had to pay his dues. Do things that he never realized would be part of the game plan.
Unparalleled fame, as it turned out, meant dethroning all other kings.
It was outside a dive bar in Cyber City that Spamton had dragged Tenna to,
insisting these were the best drinks he’d ever have,
they stumbled out buzzing with excess energy,
and Spamton grabbed hold of some part of Tenna’s hand,
with a streetlamp above casting a shadow beneath his nose that swallowed up his mouth,
Spamton took a chance on sloppy aim,
with his eyes closed like he could pretend it didn’t happen if he missed.
His eyes screwed shut, not quite tight enough to hold the line against the invasion from the inside of his eyelids.
The burden of the truth would hurt Tenna worse than anything Spamton could do to try and sever this thread before it was too late.
“Damn you,” Spamton hissed. “Stupid… fucking… CRT…”
He’d always been a little sleazy—nobody was denying that. Tenna would believe he’d backed out of a deal.
Tenna, to his last breath, would deny that Spamton ever did anything to intentionally bring harm to him. He would lay there, sparking and popping, and insist that Spamton couldn’t have known. Cracked glass would scatter around them, and Spamton would probably stick his guilty little hands into the cavern of the once-was screen to electrocute himself hard enough to forget or to disappear.
…There it was. He was selfish. He was just backing out of a deal before it killed him.
Bullshit.
The truth hurts worse.