Chapter Text
As usual, the broadcast was flawless.
Their act, by this point, was a finely oiled machine, perfectly tailored to keep the audience howling with laughter and on the edge of their seat — a flawless push and pull. They’d come for the flashy sets, the bright smiles and brighter suits, and stay for the character act. It was all about the charm and chemistry, and by now they had that down to an art.
He used to believe he knew TV, but he saw now that he’d only been putting on half a show. No wonder the ratings had begun to dip way back then. Obsolescence was the only punishment for his ignorance, he just hadn't realized he’d been depriving his entire audience of what the show could be. He knew better now, felt better. It felt like he was brand new technology again, the hottest thing on the market, and he got to feel it every single day.
In a synchronized twist, he flicked his arm while Spamton sprang from his perch on Tenna’s shoulder. He landed perfectly on Tenna’s index and middle fingers and without even a single twitch out of step, they seamlessly moved into their walking-on-his-fingertips trick. The audience couldn’t see the hours they’d spent honing it, the number of times Spamton had stumbled and the other number of times Tenna failed to catch him. All they saw was the immaculate teamwork, like a magic trick, and their oohs and ahhs made every misstep worth it.
This was what he’d been missing. The Tenna that stood on this stage in years past would have balked at the idea of sharing the spotlight — how could he possibly dull himself with something like a cohost? — but that Tenna didn’t realize that a cohost (the right cohost) would only make him shine brighter.
He didn’t need to, there was absolutely no need when the show was going as perfectly smooth as it always did, but he couldn’t help but meet Spamton’s eye as he placed him back on his shoulder.
He was already looking back at him. Completely unnecessarily, they’d done this move a thousand times, but Spamton’s show-smile grew a hair more genuine before he gave his next line.
As he stage-whispered a backhanded insult about their next round of contestants — angled in just the right way to be directed both towards Tenna and the audience — his free hand stroked softly down the cable on the back of Tenna’s neck. It was out of the sight of the cameras, along the less-sensitive large cable that, through trial, he knew wouldn’t make Tenna jump. It wasn’t a reassurance, there was nothing to reassure when they both knew they were at the top of their game, but more of a promise — a guarantee.
No one’s looking away. No one can look away when we’re at our best, and I’m at my best when you are.
“What do you say, Ant? I think our contestants are looking a little sleepy!”
“I think you’re right, Spam!” The nicknames came easy, even if they were only the stage ones. “I think they need another physical challenge!”
Right on cue, the stage changed, blinking to black then right into a bright blue as the flash of the logo faded away. The contestants would have to get through a log-rolling challenge while the pair of hosts 'encouraged' them from their beach chairs in the backdrop, a pair of umbrella'd (non-alcoholic, to Spamton's chagrin) glasses appearing in their hands to complete the look.
The audience couldn't be louder, the fun-o-meter never dipped. They clinked their glasses in sync as a contestant slipped off a log.
___
"That's a wrap! Good work today, everyone!" Tenna yelled over the bustling heads of his employees. With the last program of the week shot, spliced, and sent to air, the hard working TV World darkners could finally have a well-deserved break. The ratings were already projected to be top of the charts and they were actually ahead of schedule for once, so Tenna decided to turn a blind eye when he caught wind of a pack of pippins setting up a poker game in the back rooms.
The rest of his employees seemed to be congregating in the green room. There wasn't an early broadcast tomorrow so it seemed everyone had simultaneously decided they'd be letting loose until early hours. Typically, Tenna would have the urge to fret, to insist that one small success wasn't cause to slack off, that the ratings could always slip again, that the lightners would notice the second they stopped, but oddly, that fear wasn't there tonight.
He felt a tug on the tail of his suit jacket. "Green or gold [[in the air tonight]], star?"
"Gold!" He'd rather remember tonight come tomorrow morning. He hadn't felt the need to drink undiluted acid ever since Spamton took the cohost role, but his little mailman still asked every time — it was routine at this point.
"You heard the [[guys and dolls]], Ramb!" Tenna watched him scramble up onto a bar stool and smack the counter with his open palms. Already he was turning towards the open seat next to him, lowered by a few feet for its much-larger intended recipient.
Truly, he wasn't fearing anything at all. As long as Spamton was with him, watching him with that half-cocked grin and standing next to him on stage, then he was certain that the curtain would never fall. The lightners would never stop watching, he'd never be unplugged, and he'd never go back to those days of desperately scrambling for views.
He joined Spamton at the bar, though apparently sitting next to him wasn't good enough for his little mailman. He hopped up onto the counter, much to the bartender's chagrin, as Ramb set down two fizzy glasses of sweet, glowing acid (not that he did more than roll his eyes and get to filling the glasses of the crowding crew members).
"You were great up there, Tens!" Spamton said after a hearty swallow. "Had them [[eat em' up!]] from the palm of your hand!"
"Flattery won't get you anywhere," Tenna lied, his chin in his palm and his antennae curling inward. He poked his cohost in the stomach with one clawed finger, just to watch him squirm a little. "You want something!"
"I just [[you want this, you need this!]] the star of the show to know how good he was up there, since I don't tell ya' enough. And to go over the infomercial we're airing next broadcast, but mostly that first thing!"
"Little sneak!" Tenna teased, though he couldn't muster even the thinnest mask of real upset. He'd let Spamton have another airing block for his commercial, he'd let Spamton have just about whatever he wanted at this point and couldn't bring himself to mind it.
His dangling feet kept brushing just close enough to feel, teasing back. Tempting because he knew this would make Tenna want to pick him up and spin him through the room. That was the point of the game, teasing, a back and forth that veered just to the other side of respectability.
He felt himself melting under that gaze. Spamton didn't glow, not physically like Tenna's screen did, but he was so bright sometimes.
"You were amazing up there too," he continued softly. "You always are."
Barely half a drink in and he was already resisting the urge to kiss him silly. Actually, he didn't have to drink for that thought to rattle behind his screen, it sat there persistently like a song stuck in his head. He'd do it now, high off the rush from the stage and surrounded by his celebrating crew if he thought Spamton would let him get away with it, but apparently he thought that type of thing needed to stay firmly behind closed doors.
That is, until he had a few drinks in him. Tenna could wait. During the last few afterparties, 'behind closed doors' became 'on the green room couch' and by this point, none of his employees thought the cohosts' poorly guarded secret was noteworthy in the slightest. The censors might if it ever made its way on stage (which, going by the amount of times Tenna had to stop himself from overtly flirting during their improv segments, was a distinct possibility), but, if all went well then that wouldn't be a concern for much longer.
Gossip magazines have been speculating for a while, and dodging the question during interviews only sparked more controversy, but, as Spamton pointed out, a little mystery was stellar for the ratings. The network just didn't want a scandal, but there wouldn't be a scandal if Tenna went about it the right way. He already had the ring in his dresser — when the audience saw it on air they'd make it a story, the one of the decade! Re-run views would spike, sponsors would flood in, the network would see it was all above board, and best of all, he'd get to be with Spamton until they both crumbled into dust.
He wanted to run to his room right now, grab the box, and kneel down right where he was sitting, but with that one secret still dangling over his head, he couldn't. Not yet anyway.
"What a charmer!" Spamton said, kicking him lightly. "Pull that in interviews and the [[$3.99 paper rolls]] won't be able to get enough!"
"Maybe I want to save it for a real talent! Got anyone in mind, Big Shot?"
On cue, the subtle red on his cheeks spread across his nose and bled to his temples. For some reason, that nickname always got to him more than the others.
Predictably, he hid his face with another hurried swallow of his drink — the champion of being able to dish it out, but completely unable to take it. If Tenna had his way he'd play this game all night long.
Before he could fire off another zinger, his attention was demanded by his favorite weather lady. Already giggling and slurring slightly, she leaned on the seat Spamton had vacated.
"We need music, boss!" she insisted, sloshing her two-strawed drink as she did. "What's a party if I can't dance with my sunny day?"
Said sunny day piped up immediately. "What's the point of drinking if I can't sway with my cloudy sky?" Lanino seemed equally inebriated, also bearing his own double-strawed drink, apparently the same one. Why'd they get two if they were just going to share?
He looked down at his own drink, then at Spamton's. Maybe he would—
"Keep dreaming, [[Cathode]]," he hissed, but a moment later he hopped off his perch and held out his hand. "But I wouldn't [[just say no!]] to a song or two."
That toothy half grin, the giggling of his cast — his friends, and the acid bubbling through his system made him get to his feet before the thought fully occurred. This was all he needed, all he ever wanted. He'd never wish for anything more than his perfect audience, his perfect show — every misstep was finally worth it.
"Mike! Turn on the jukebox! I'm in the mood for swing!"
____
There was a pulse behind his screen when he woke, a dull ache from the more-than-a-few glasses of acid he'd had the night before. It wasn't the worst hangover he'd had though, not by a longshot, and he was pretty sure there weren't any major gaps in his memory.
In fact...
He looked down at the sleeping darkner tucked into his elbow. There was a small bruise on his left cheek where Tenna remembered accidentally poking him with his nose the night before. Just as he thought, they'd ended up on the green room couch, lazily talking in between intermittent kisses as the afterparty wound down.
Spamton didn't spend every night here. Most of the time he drove to his room in Cyber City then came back just before taping would start, but on drunken nights like the one before, more often than not he'd spend them in Tenna's bed. Maybe it was premature, buying that ring before Spamton was even living here, but he just knew it was the right move. He felt it. He knew the stories, the tried and true troupes that always resulted in the happy ending — the protagonist just knew when it felt right, when the love was real.
It wouldn't be this intense if it wasn't real. He wouldn't feel that whirring in his chest and buzzing behind his screen just looking at his little mailman's face if it wasn't real. The only hurdle left was that pesky phone, that secret behind his sponsor that he still wouldn't tell.
An idea struck him. It was devious, a bit underhanded. If this didn't work it wouldn't just cause a fight, he might lose Spamton altogether, but he knew that wouldn't happen. There was always that heart-in-your-throat risk that came with these types of stories, but they always ended up alright in the end.
"'s too early, [[10% off!]]." Spamton squinted at him, blinking awake, then shoved a pillow into his screen. "That's better."
"Htph! Hhpmht mmth mrh!"
"Ah, sweet [[noise cancelling headphones]]!" Spamton snorted, laughing at him. Tenna ripped the pillow away, then held his hands down so he couldn't reach for another.
"Spamton! You're ruining the moment!"
"What moment, [[stackem' blocks]]head? I was trying to sleep and I can't with your LEDs blinding me!"
Tenna sighed dramatically, feeling the need to put his palm to his forehead, but certain Spamton would just smother him again if he let go of his wrists. "Where's the Casanova that swept me off my feet last night? Because he's certainly not you."
"Shove it, you [[can't get deals like this!]] enough of me."
Even half-awake, without all the primping and practiced expressions, that face could make him melt.
He didn't want to wait any longer.
"You're right, I can't." He loosened his grip and Spamton didn't go reaching for the pillow. Instead he traced his small fingers along the edge of his screen. All gentle and sweet — descriptors so out of left field when applied to the showboating salesman that anyone else might've called him delusional for thinking it.
But they didn't know Spamton like he did. They didn't know there was a secret romantic hiding beneath that bravado that only Tenna brought to the surface, and they never would.
"I've got something I want to ask you," Tenna said, not a hint of nervousness or faltering in his voice. This would go exactly how he wanted, his cohost always picked up his cues.
"That sounds [[serious case of the mumps]]," Spamton teased sleepily. His hand lingered for a moment, stretched between them as Tenna stood and crossed to his dresser.
"It is!" He rummaged around, feeling for the sock he'd tucked the box into. It was tiny in his hands, tinier than usual.
"Should I be worried, star? You're [[bigger and better!]] than usual."
Star. He loved when Spamton called him that. It made him feel like he never left his golden years. Maybe he hadn't, maybe his real golden years only started when his ridiculous little mailman came waltzing into his office, a pitch on his tongue (an addison selling himself of all things) and a crook in his smile.
The box shrank in his hands even more. Oh dear, any taller and kneeling wouldn't give the desired effect anymore, even with Spamton still perched on his bed.
When he turned, he saw all the sleepiness had vanished from Spamton's face. He was staring at Tenna's clamshell-closed hands, completely concealing the box but clearly holding something that fit between them.
He froze, statue still as Tenna approached. The first shred of nervousness began to gather behind his screen. He couldn't read anything on Spamton's face, just slightly widened eyes. He'd pushed himself up, his fists clenched tightly in the blanket that was pooled in his lap. Was he surprised? Most likely, but this was a good surprise. No, they hadn't actually talked about it, and yes, Tenna had only gotten his ring size by over-encouraging a night of heavy drinking, but the surprise was half the fun!
And surely Spamton wanted this, or at the very least anticipated it. There'd been more than one 'nagging' ball and chain joke, playful jabs about wedding bells and matching tuxedos.
There was even one after party (thinking about it still make the wires in his chest squirm) where Spamton had pulled him in by the tie, flirty in the way he only really got when he was at that halfway point between tipsy and drunk, and he snickered about how annoyed Tenna's fawning weather duo would be if the cohosts tied the knot first. A moment later, Spamton had let go of his tie and nearly fallen off his seat, a riot of laughs spilling from his mouth. Tenna couldn't forget it, he wouldn't. He knew Spamton by that point, knew how he'd try to make light of even the most serious topics, especially the ones that were important to him. Especially the ones he thought shouldn't be important to him.
Tenna could read between the lines. He knelt down at the side of the bed and tried not to worry about the fact that they were still at eye-level.
"Spammy, er, I mean Spamton G. Spamton—"
"Don't use my full [[nom de plume]], you [[goober]]!" He seemed to have been shaken from his stupor and bolted to the edge of the bed. A face-splitting smile broke his face in two, and still he was trying to tease!
"This is supposed to be official! Don't mess me up!" He'd practiced and rewrote the words he'd say over and over again, but they never seemed to turn out right, they never really encompassed it all. How could he truly say it? What perfect string of syllables could convey how thoroughly his life had been changed by his little mailman's presence?
He didn't think they existed. All of his years up on that stage, all of the lines he'd written and improv'ed, all of the great romances he'd aired, and he was drawing a blank. He could always talk — it was a showman's most important talent, why was it abandoning him now?!
"I..." he fumbled, color bars flicking across his screen as he failed and failed again to let out one of the many speeches he'd tossed into his waste bin.
Spamton laughed behind his hand. This was all coming apart, he was laughing at him now! He'd gotten too far to hope for a do-over, he'd already revealed the box! Though...he hadn't revealed what was inside — maybe he could pretend it wasn't what it looked like. Just a mid-morning prank! You're just dreaming, dear, go back to sleep!
"Need some [[press F1 for help]]?"
Despite it all, he still looked painfully fond.
"No!" Tenna insisted, but then the rest of what he was supposed to say still failed to tumble out. "...maybe."
"Stay [[hold it right there!]]."
Spamton hopped off the bed and began bustling around quickly, to Tenna's confusion. When he tried to follow, to say something instead of this amateur stuttering, Spamton fixed him in place with a look. He was making a mess of things though — a shade torn off a lamp, his pen cup spilled as he grabbed a pair, the paper on his side table rolled into a tube and bound with a dangling belt.
Admittedly, it did make him feel a little better as he watched with utter bafflement. Spamton only let him move when he came to halt next to him — lampshade in hand — and demanded a lift.
Tenna raised him back to the bed, but apparently that wasn't good enough.
"To the [[break the glass ceiling]]!"
He did, obliging as Spamton fixed the shade to the overhead light and aimed it towards where Tenna had been kneeling.
"Now," the bossy little darkner said. "Back in position, [[Big Guy]], we only get one take!"
"What are you—"
"[[All quiet on set!]]" That last clip came straight from the mouths of his own camera crew. He bounded over to the room's overhead light switch and waited there insistently until Tenna got back down to his original, kneeling stance.
As soon as he did, Spamton flipped the switch. With the lampshade, the overhead became a spotlight, leaving the rest of the room in relative darkness. Spamton scrambled back on the bed and held the belted paper roll up to his eye, making a whirring sound with his mouth as he moved the belt in a wide circle, like a crank.
"We've got the [[lights, camera—]]," he said, putting on his stage voice. "Now it's time for the [[ACTION]]!! Can I get a drumroll, please?"
He had to drop the 'camera' so he could drum the pair of pens against a discarded pillow.
"Here he is, folks! Star of the silver screen, a wit that never quits, the [[king of only]], Mr. Ant Tenna!! Joining you now on this special broadcast!"
Tenna was only able to watch him stunned.
The entire production was a pale imitation of their show — they didn't even use cameras with a reel! — but the impromptu 'spotlight' felt brighter than the real thing. Out there, in front of the crew and crowd, Spamton tended to play the harder edge, the bad cop to his good, a 'stricter' hand, he might say, but when that mask came down — an easier and easier feat the longer that Tenna knew him — he was soft, right down to his core.
He was melting. This weird little darkner was going to be his until the end of the line.
"Was that, er, [[only $2.99!]] much?"
He couldn't help the delighted laugh that spilled from out of him. With a snap, he could've fabricated this entire staging — a handy power to have as the lord of this world — but he wouldn't change Spamton's improvised set. In fact, it was about time that he started performing!
"What a stellar introduction that was! Give it up for my darling cohost!" He made cheers erupt, picking up the script where Spamton had left it for him. Finally, he got the chance to lay it on as thick as he wanted — no network in sight! "And might I say, how handsome my dashing cohost is looking? Why, I've got half a mind to cut this broadcast short for a little more time backstage! If you all catch my drift." The aside was given to the audience of one, who snorted into his palm.
"Stay on track!" he chided without a hint of real bite. "Don't make me have to break out the [[mini cue sticks]] cards."
"And as my stunning, clever, (blanket-stealing) cohost said,” Tenna continued. “This is indeed a special broadcast! You see, dear viewers, I've read your letters, seen your reviews, and heard your shouts from the audience, and today, I'm about to ask that one question you've all been begging me to!"
"I read the letters, [[boobtube]], and I promise they're not saying—"
"Spamton G. Spamton, my dearest spammy little mailman, I want today to be just like yesterday." He couldn't help but to scoot a little closer to the foot of the bed. "And the next day to be just like that, and the next and the next! I've never wanted to share the spotlight until I met you, and now I never want to be alone up there again. My leading man, my headliner, my one and only co-star, I want to keep making TV with you until we both die at the same time and turn to dust in the same grave." Whoops, that last bit wasn't in his rough drafts, better bring out the clincher.
He finally flipped open the box. The 'spotlight' glinted off the polished gold — did Spamton plan that? He wouldn't be surprised, he always brought the best ideas to add that wow factor to production.
"Would you...would you make me the happiest CRT there's ever been?"
Spamton was barely on the bed, leaning half off it, his hands hovering just above his lap like he was about to reach for him. Time slowed as his jaw fell open, a quick inhale before he'd speak, before he'd say yes—
He tilted his head. A pause — was he unsure? Didn't he want to? Why help with Tenna's poorly timed stage fright if he didn't want to say yes?! It almost seemed like he was waiting for something. Was his speech not good enough? He barely remembered half of what he said — something about a grave? — why in the world would he say that during a proposal? Was he daft? He must've been the most egg-brained, unromantic, pathetic excuse of a CRT that’s ever existed. No wonder Spamton didn't want to marry h—
"Yes!!"
Before he could spiral further, the ring box was knocked from his hand as the little darkner launched himself at him. Small arms were tightly wrapped around his shoulders and a handsomely pointed nose was mushed against his screen.
"...Yes?" Tenna repeated dumbly.
"[[Affirmative]] [[with this agreement—]] YeS!" In his excitement, Spamton was all but punching his shoulder, hopping excitedly from foot to foot on Tenna's bent thighs. "Of course, [[boobtube]]! Who knows, you might make an [[honesty is the best policy]] man out of me yet!"
"Oh, Spammy! You will? You will!!" Tenna bundled him close in his arms as he danced around the room. The ceiling was rapidly approaching, but he couldn't care in the slightest. Spamton was going to marry him, which meant he'd stick around forever and ever and he'd always be here to make sure TV Time never slipped again, and best of all Tenna would get to keep him and love him! And every single day from now on would be nothing but better and better broadcasts and a small hand tucked into his and late nights wrapping up with his crew before he'd get tucked into bed with his darling little mailman right under his chin.
But first, he had to peel back that final piece of red tape.
Gingerly, he set Spamton back down, but wasn't able to get away from a few sweet kisses, and found where the ring box had fallen. Luckily it was still sitting inside and hadn't been scuffed in the action.
When he held his palm open, Spamton quickly gave his hand, but he couldn't slip the ring on yet. He let it hover just before.
"There's just...one more thing," Tenna said softly. He couldn't help notice that there was a bit of wetness around his mailman's eyes.
"Yeah? What is it, star?"
"If we do this, there can't be any secrets between us."
He tried to jerk his hand back, but Tenna held his wrist tightly. He wasn’t letting him get away that easily, he’d seen his excitement! Felt it in the pecks against his screen and the grasp of his shoulders.
Tenna wracked his brain, trying to figure out what the ever-loving problem was. Did Spamton just not want him to know his secret to success that badly? But why if he wasn’t planning on leaving?
He had countless movies stored in his memory box, surely one of them had the answer he needed! Think, Tenna, in every narrative he’d seen, how would the reluctant love interest finally be persuaded into giving up their secret?
Tenna forced his grip to loosen — still tight, but not crushing. He had to coax, dangle that carrot on a stick.
“Please, Spams? I promise I won’t be mad! It’s just…I need to know before we do this. Secrets poison good relationships — that’s what all the stories say!”
He looked skeptical, his brows furrowed. “Are you sure you’re not pulling this [[exciting action, dangerous stunts!]] because you want the [[secret to his success]]?”
"Of course not!" Tenna recoiled, caught himself, then pushed closer. He touched the cool metal edge of the ring to Spamton’s finger, just enough for him to feel it. "I want this, I just want to do it right!"
Spamton was faltering, he could see it. All he had to do was push just that tiny bit more.
He brought his hand to the side of Spamton's face. He was tiny in his hold — his thumb ran from his forehead to his chin and his fingers easily wrapped around the back of his skull. "Please? Whatever you're afraid of—o-or you're worrying about, we can face it together! That's...that's what this means, right?"
“…yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, it is, Ant." He looked to the side, froze once more, like he was waiting for something again. Whatever he was waiting for didn't seem to come, because Tenna felt the moment those tense strings were cut.
The stiff line of his shoulders softened, that wobbly smile on his mouth returned, and he leaned into Tenna's hand, his own coming to rest near Tenna's thumb knuckle.
"I will," he said after a beat. "As soon as the [[tell the papers!]] are signed, I will. I...I promise."
He'd been hoping to learn Spamton's secret now, but he supposed he could compromise. Besides, it's not like he could wiggle his way out of this one — holy matrimony came with a binding clause that of course Tenna wouldn't exploit, but would certainly tug if it became necessary. And who would want to interrupt the romantic air with something heavy? Not him! That was for sure!
Those contracts would have to be drawn up sooner rather than later though. Some darkners were happy to spend years on the engagement phase, but Tenna knew he wasn't one of them. Tomorrow. He could definitely have them drawn up by tomorrow.
His antennae began to twist. They were engaged.
He finally slipped the ring onto Spamton's finger, and tried not to think about what he seemed to be waiting for.