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No one even mentioned it, when the curtains closed and Spamton left the stage. The employees all tossed him their usual vague congratulations on a show well done and carried on once he’d acknowledged them. Tenna grabbed him like he always did, spinning him happily while yammering on about how wonderful the audience had been that night. Lanino and Elnina only gave him a friendly wave before retiring to the greenroom.
Based on the evidence he had gathered, it would therefore be rational for Spamton to assume that nobody had even noticed it, or that if they had, none of them found it noteworthy enough to bring up. Which meant that it was completely fine and Spamton could now stop thinking about it. What did it matter? He practically ran the damn show anyway, so surely he had leeway to spare? He was great and fine and happy with how the show went and there definitely wasn’t a strange weight settling in his stomach and clinging to his ribs like some kind of cancerous growth. That would be absurd.
He gritted his teeth and gave himself a quick shake to clear away the residual strangeness prickling along his skin. He was just having a tiny bit of an off-day. It was probably just some kind of lingering stage fright. He’d thought he’d mostly gotten rid of that, but he supposed some adrenaline was inevitable. That was all this was. That was all this had been.
Still, he didn’t particularly feel like interacting with people right now. He just wanted to get out of here, take the longest shower of his life and let himself crash. But he was expected to mingle at least a bit, and the only thing worse than having to make polite conversation for a half hour was if people got curious about his absence and came looking. So he stuffed his hands in his pockets and strode out into the greenroom, a winning smile plastered across his face and a malignant rot festering in his chest.
He made his way over to the bar, tossing amicable greetings at the staff as he passed by them. He pulled out a chair and dropped down into it a bit more heavily than he’d intended to and preemptively pulled out his point reader. Normally, he’d try to barter with Ramb about the prices before begrudgingly pulling the thing out, but he wasn’t in the mood today. The plan, as he saw it, was simple: Get one drink, make conversation until he finished it, and then excuse himself with a trusty ‘welp, gotta get back to work.’ It would be a flawless performance. Unlike earlier.
“Can I get you something?” Ramb asked wearily. Spamton raised an eyebrow and Ramb sighed. “The usual, then?”
“You know it!” Spamton confirmed. He shot the barkeep a pair of finger guns, just to help sell this whole ‘perfectly fine and energetic’ act he was setting up. Ramb didn’t react beyond reaching under the bar to grab what he needed and pouring the drink. He slid the glass across the bar towards Spamton and turned to go when his eyes landed on the reader still resting on the surface. He blinked in surprise.
“Not gonna give me trouble tonight?” he asked smugly.
“Nah. Figured I’d go easy on you for once,” Spamton said easily. He nudged the card in Ramb’s direction. “Just having one tonight.” Ramb pursed his lips and took the device uncertainly, plugging it into his company-issued one and transferring the points.
“Good show tonight,” Ramb said blandly.
“Eh. Middle of the road,” Spamton replied. I fucked up. You must have seen me fuck up. “Could’ve been worse.”
“That it could,” Ramb agreed. He passed the reader back to Spamton, who quickly pocketed it. “Then again, pretty sure that’s the case with everything, innit?” Spamton glanced back up at him. He usually didn’t make this much conversation (at least not unless Spamton was actively trying to swindle some free booze out of him). He noticed. I knew he noticed. Spamton wrapped his hand around the glass tightly, focusing on the pressure in his fingers instead of the pressure in his chest. He was being paranoid. If no one else had mentioned it then it clearly hadn’t actually been that noticeable.
“Sure?” he responded, finally. Ramb hummed in acknowledgement and finally left him alone to go help a Shadowguy at the far end of the bar. Spamton let out a puff of held air. He realized that his shoulders had tensed up at some point and forced them back down. Get a fucking grip, idiot.
He took a small sip of his drink and let the liquid burn its way down his throat. It sucked, just like it always sucked, but it was more palatable than it had been the first few times. He didn’t know why he still drank this shit. He was the most successful salesman in all of Cyber City. He was practically running TV World at Tenna’s side. It’s not like anyone would have the audacity to comment if he chose to drink something that didn’t taste like ass. They’d think it though, wouldn’t they? It was stupid, but what else was he supposed to do when his stomach folded in on itself at the thought of drinking out of a glass with a stem. Wine comes in a glass with a stem, moron. This is the stupidest rule you’ve ever come up with. He took another sip and somehow managed not to gag.
The alcohol did little to help the scratchiness in his throat. He almost wondered if he was coming down with something, but it didn’t feel swollen, it just felt dry. He took another swig, trying to angle it so it coated his whole throat on the way down. It helped for a moment, as the burn replaced the dry feeling, but it returned full force as soon as the drink was swallowed. The weight in his chest shifted again.
By some miracle, most of the staff were otherwise engaged and therefore left Spamton alone at the bar to drink his horrid concoction and occasionally give a suitably friendly wave. The noise was still too loud, but at least he didn’t have to try and focus on anyone specific. It was easier to block it out when that was all he had to do, instead of trying to simultaneously block out everything else while trying to let one voice come through. Just drink, smile, wave, repeat. Just one drink, until he’d fulfilled his social obligation enough to vanish without being tracked back down.
His good fortune ended when he was about three quarters of the way done. He was contemplating just biting the bullet and knocking the rest back when the door clanged open and he heard the all-too familiar footsteps of perhaps the last person he wanted to see. Last person I wanna see. His throat constricted at the thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it back.
“Great show, everyone! Phenomenal performance, the audience was absolutely raving!” Tenna’s voice boomed through the greenroom, cutting through the noise like a clap of thunder. Spamton had to force himself not to curl in defensively at the sound. “Wonderful job, everyone! Elnina, Lanino, stunning as always! Let’s keep up the good work, alright folks!?” There was a corporate mandated cheer of agreement from the Darkners in the greenroom before everyone went back to their previous activities and left Tenna to his devices.
Spamton knew where he would go, because it was where he always went. Sure enough, a moment later he felt a heavy hand clap onto his shoulder. It took everything he had not to pull away. It was fine, it was just Tenna, Tenna touched him all the time, he didn’t mind when Tenna touched him. That’s just how Tenna was. It’s not Tenna’s fault that he reminds you. Reminds you that you’re small.
“Spamton! Just the man I wanted to see!”
“Was I now?” Spamton drawled.
“Of course! I wanted to congratulate you on yet another show well done!” Well done? Well done? How can you call that well done? Didn’t you see?
“You ever gonna get sick of doing that?” Spamton teased.
“Unlikely,” Tenna replied. “It’s true, after all!” His height dropped a few feet and Spamton swallowed down the rising bile in his throat as his co-host took the stool beside him. Tenna glanced at the nearly empty drink in Spamton’s hand and the corners of his mouth curled down in disgust. “I can’t believe you actually enjoy that stuff.” He waved Ramb over, ordering something with far too many words in it.
“What can I say? Nothing beats the burn,” Spamton said, taking another swig of his drink and ignoring the way every muscle in his face begged to recoil at the flavor. Tenna’s drink appeared on the bar. Something pink and swirly with a coating around the rim and a little umbrella and a glass with a stem. Tenna took a sip, sighing contentedly.
“But it’s so bitter,” Tenna continued.
“Geez, did you come over here just to critique my drink choices?” Spamton asked. He’d meant it to sound like a joke, but he could feel real bitterness creeping in at the edges. Get it together. He was usually so much better at controlling himself. His emotions, his tone, he had it all on lock. What was wrong with him today?
“Alright, alright,” Tenna laughed, apparently not catching the edge to Spamton’s voice. Maybe it hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought. Just like the show. He took another swig to block the memory out. The glass was almost empty, but it no longer felt like freedom. Not now that Tenna was here. He prayed that Tenna’s good mood lasted, because he wasn’t sure he could stomach much longer of this. They’d barely been talking for a minute and he already wanted to crawl out of his skin.
What the hell was his problem? He… enjoyed Tenna’s company, didn’t he? Tenna was the closest thing he had to an actual friend these days. Tenna’s company wasn’t supposed to feel like this, this bubbling rage and need to just scream at him to shut up and leave him alone. Tenna was supposed to be tolerable. Why did Tenna’s very presence at his side make his skin prickle?
“-and I’ve been thinking it would be a good way to spice things up! What do you think?” Shit shit shit. He’d been talking the whole time, how had Spamton forgotten to fucking listen?
“Well, you’re the boss,” Spamton said, praying that it was vague enough to catch whatever Tenna had said.
“Of course I am! But I’d still like to hear your thoughts on it!”
“Eh, I’m not much of an ‘ideas’ guy, Ten. You know that.” Tenna pouted in disappointment. Normally, Spamton found it endearing. Right now, he just wanted to punch him. What?
“Well, obviously I’m the main creative force. But you shouldn’t sell yourself short!”
“I think I’ll leave it in your hands,” Spamton insisted. “I’ll stick to the numbers, please and thank you.” They’ll see. If I come up with the ideas, they’ll see. They’ll see that I can’t do this. No, it was fine, of course he could do this, he had been doing this! It was perfectly fine. He just preferred the administrative side was all. That’s why him and Tenna worked so well together. Tenna handled all the creative, clever, (vulnerable) shit and Spamton dealt with the impersonal stuff. The deals and the numbers and the kinda stuff that never forced you to show who you were. To risk showing what you were. He hadn’t even wanted to cohost, at the start. Tenna had twisted his arm on that one. Which was fine, he was fine at it and it was just a little slip up, nothing else.
“Come on, big guy, what’s wrong?” Spamton asked in response to Tenna’s exaggerated huff.
“I was just hoping for some insight from my partner," Tenna said drearily. “You’re so snippy today.” He did notice. Fuck he noticed. He saw.
“Am I?” Spamton deflected.
“Is there too much on your plate? You know you can always delegate some of those administrative duties-”
“You know what they say, Ten! You want it done right, you gotta [Just do it] yourself!” He slammed his mouth shut, looking up at Tenna to see if the other man had noticed. He’d gotten lucky with that one, with how it managed to naturally flow into the sentence. He finished off his drink to wash away the taste of the false voice. It was fine, he could control it. The mass in his stomach seemed to pulse in response to it, feeding on his distress.
“Haha! I know, I know,” Tenna waved him off. “But I can’t have my co-host out of sorts, now can I?”
“Right, of course not,” Spamton said nervously. Tenna tapped his glass nervously, his antennae twitching the way they always did when he was trying to decide if it was worse to say something or just stay silent.
“I wasn’t going to mention it, but I did notice that you seemed to lose a bit of the script earlier.” Spamton’s heart stopped completely. He’d known. Fuck, he’d known they fucking noticed. Damn it damn it damnit.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “My bad. Got lost in the moment, I guess.”
“Of course!” Tenna said quickly. “It was… fairly minor, I’m sure no one else noticed!” Spamton felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck. “It’s just so unlike you. You’re always so on top of things, especially in the scripted segments.” Tenna turned away, his screen taking on a slight pink tinge. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, is all.” No, this wasn’t right. He’d noticed, he should be angry. He should be telling him not to let it happen again, because the show needed to be flawless. He knows. He knows what you are. And he thinks you’re weak. That he needs to coddle you to keep you from breaking down.
“All good over here, buddy,” Spamton said quickly. His voice wavered on the last word. No, please, not now. He felt a burning at the back of his throat that had nothing to do with the god awful alcohol. “But, now that you mention it… I guess I could probably use a bit more shut-eye. Keep myself fresh, yeah?”
“Yes, of course!” Tenna said quickly. “Was that it? Were you tired today?” I’m not weak, I can fucking work if I’m tired.
“Yeah, a bit,” was what he said instead. “Know what? I think I’m gonna call it a night. Get rested up for tomorrow.” He clenched his hands, fingers digging into his palms as deep as he could make them go.
“Oh! Y-yeah, that’s… that’s a good idea. You should get your rest! Don’t let me keep you!” Tenna turned away, the hue in his screen brightening slightly. Under any other circumstances, Spamton would have inquired about it. Checked in on Tenna to try and figure out why he was also acting weird. But as it stood, he wasn’t sure he could safely get even a single word out. He felt his eyes prick. Fuck.
“See you later,” he forced out anyway, because he couldn’t leave without a goodbye, he couldn’t leave too quickly, he couldn’t give anyone any more reasons to be suspicious. He gave Tenna a quick wave over his shoulder and made his way out of the greenroom, careful to keep his footsteps slow. So he didn’t look like he was fleeing.
He hoped to make it back to his apartment at least. Somewhere safe and isolated where he could ride out whatever this bullshit was. But the greenroom door had hardly closed when he felt his shoulders start shaking uncontrollably. He clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the disgusting sound that tried to force itself out. He had to hold it together. Fuck he had to hold it together.
He heard voices coming down the hall and panicked. He couldn’t be seen like this, going back to his apartment was too risky. His head snapped around the hallway, searching for anything that could save him. His eyes landed on his dressing room door, a bit down the hallway. He lunged for it as the voices began getting closer, desperately diving through the door and slamming it behind him.
The door clicked shut behind him and he stumbled back against the wall, hand still pressed desperately to his mouth. His eyes were stinging now, and he could feel moisture starting to leak down onto his cheek. The disgusting mass in his stomach writhed happily, as if this was some kind of battle of wills that the stupid thing had finally won.
He gritted his teeth and fumbled for the button of his blazer desperately, the panic making his fingers clumsy. He tore the thing off, suddenly unable to breathe with that much fabric in the way. This was so stupid. Nothing had happened, why the fuck was he doing this? A minor slip-up, a few well-meaning comments from Tenna, and suddenly he couldn’t even function? He was being so absurd. He was being unreasonable. He was being hysterical.
His hands, free from his blazer, came up to dig at his hair, yanking it free from the suddenly constricting weight of the gell. What kind of man broke down after one off-day at work? He was happy. He had everything he ever fucking wanted, why wasn’t it enough? Why hadn’t that stupid rot in his chest gone away? I did what you asked. I’m successful, I’m beloved, why are you still here? I look right now, why won’t you leave? I look-
He caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room. Dark eyes already rimmed in red and face getting puffy. Well-tailored blazer discarded, uncovering the wrinkled dress shirt underneath. His hair, usually carefully gelled back, hung around his face. Framed his face. When did it get this long? He could see the white roots growing back in, fading into the suddenly loose strands. It made his entire face look so much softer. So much prettier.
He gagged at the image in the mirror, trying to undo his handiwork and shove his hair back up. But it was too late, he saw it everywhere now. His pants were hugging his hips too tightly, his blazer was slightly translucent, his chest was visible, he was too short, even in the dressing room with no one else to compare to he could see it, his proportions made it obvious, it was all obvious.
He shoved his arm into his mouth and bit down, hard, trying to drive the thoughts out of his mind. There was momentary relief as his teeth dug in, only for everything to come racing back in the moment he let go. He bit down again, his hand this time, between his thumb and forefinger. Again, there was a moment of quiet. Again, it receded almost instantly.
He sank to the floor, a sob welling up out of his chest and bursting from his mouth in a ragged gasp. What the hell was he doing? Since when was he so fucking sensitive? Even his sobs sounded wrong. High-pitched squeaks broke past his defenses. Pathetic.
It was never going to be enough, was it? He could work as hard as he fucking liked, take all the advice his benefactor gave him, and he would always end up like this. Because he was nothing on his own. Not clever, not creative, not charismatic. He had a deficiency in every trait that made a man worthwhile. It wasn’t fair. He’d worked so hard, but it was never enough. He’d fucked up on the show. This was just the start. Tenna was already starting to suspect him, it was obvious in the way he treated him. Like he needed to be cared for and protected and provided for. He didn’t need Tenna’s fucking chivalry.
He didn’t know how long he sat on that floor wallowing in his own disgusting existence. All he knew was that at some point, someone knocked on the door. He started so badly at the sound that he hit himself on the vanity. He could still hardly breathe, the weight in his chest constricting his every movement. But he had to answer. He’d know something was wrong if he didn’t.
“Just makin’ sure I’ve got everythin’, Ten!” he called. His voice wavered as he spoke and his accent slipped through slightly. He cursed himself for the whole damn attempt.
“Not Tenna,” a voice on the other side informed him. He froze uncertainly. Was that…
“Ramb?”
“Right-o.” Spamton took a deep, shuddering breath before replying.
“What’re you doin’ here?” Fuck. “Tenna send ya?”
“Nah. Just thought I’d swing by.” Oh that bastard. He knew, didn’t he? He knew the whole thing and he’d just been waiting for Spamton to snap. To reveal himself as the fraud he was. How long had he been standing out there, savoring Spamton’s pathetic, muffled sobs? Just waiting for them to die down so he could gloat. ‘Always knew you were a good-for-nothing liar’ he’d say. ‘Is there anything about you that’s even real?’ No. No there isn’t. But I wouldn’t know either way, I think. I don’t think anybody knows who I am anymore. I think I forgot.
“Well, you’ve… swung,” Spamton choked out.
“Can I come in, lad?”
“Into my dressing room? What, you wanna see my dick that bad?” Spamton spat back. Fuck, he was this guy’s coworker, what was he doing, why couldn’t he just be fucking normal for once? He heard Ramb laughing through the door.
“I’ll pass, though I’m flattered by the offer.” Spamton felt rather than saw his face turn red. Yeah, sure, why not? He was already bawling his eyes out. Might as well add another stupid feminine reaction to the pile and start blushing from embarrassment. Tenna blushes when he’s embarrassed. That’s different. He’s not like me. He’s real.
“Whaddaya want?” Spamton spat. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, I can tell,” Ramb said. “Never thought I’d see you pay in full.” Spamton huffed in irritation, leaning his head against the door wearily. He could feel a headache coming on.
“If I paid in full, then why ya hasslin’ me?” He’d given up by this point. He was too tired to care. Not if it was just Ramb. Ramb didn’t have any place to judge Spamton’s accent. British fuck.
Ramb was silent for a moment, and Spamton was almost allowed the brief glimmer of hope that he’d left. Then, he heard something hit the ground on the other side of the door. Had he sat down? Was he seriously going to stay there until Spamton was forced out? Who did this jackass think he was?
“Tenna’s worried about you,” Ramb said finally. “Thought he was overthinking things at first, to be honest. Awful prone to overreactions, that one. But now, I’m thinking he might be on to something after all.”
“Oh yeah?” Spamton countered. “How’d’ya figure?”
“You’ve been off all day, lad. Hiding it pretty well, but I’ve got a keen eye for these things. Not much else to do, after all. You never pay your tab without a fight. And you sure never usually flinch when Tenna talks to you.” Flinch? He didn’t flinch. He was sure he didn’t, fuck, it was so obvious, everyone had seen it. “Hardly noticeable,” Ramb added. “But like I said, I’ve got an eye for these kinds of details.” Spamton’s legs shook and he turned his back to the door, sliding down it to sit on the floor again. He drew his legs to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, curling in on himself. He wished he could just disappear. Vanish from reality, permanently erased. Like he’d never been there at all. All that time dreaming of making it big, and now that he had it, all he wanted was to vanish again.
“What’s it to ya?” Spamton huffed out. He heard Ramb laugh again.
“You know how Tenna gets,” he said. “If his business partner goes down, then he goes down, and if he goes down then the rest of us sorry sods take the fall.”
“Oh please,” Spamton hissed. “So you’re, what? Babysitting? Tryna make sure I don’t decide to fuck off and ditch this place so Tenna doesn’t cut your pay again? ”
“Just being proactive’s all,” Ramb replied. “It’d be a shame if the show lost its numbers guy.” Spamton let out some weird, involuntary sound, something between a sob and a bark of laughter. His chest heaved with the effort. It felt like his lungs were in tatters.
“You’re a real piece a’ work, ya know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” Spamton leaned his head back against the door, blinking swollen eyelids to try and get rid of the residual dryness in his eyes. “But besides that, Tenna needs his co-host. Only so much he can do as a solo act, see. He needs you. Makes everything more interesting.”
What a fucking joke. Tenna was… Tenna was perfect. He was built to be big, even his actual body reflected it. He was made for the spotlight, effortlessly captivating. What was Spamton compared to that? Some shitty ad that couldn’t even sell on his own. A fucked up amalgamation of what a person was supposed to look like, a jumbled up puzzle missing half the pieces. Tenna was built for success. Spamton was just… built wrong.
“Relax. Ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He couldn’t. He’d come too far now to back out. This was just a… lapse in control. He was happy here, grateful for everything his benefactor had gave him. He enjoyed the show. He enjoyed TV World. This was everything he’d ever wanted… right?
“Hm. Well, that’s good to hear,” Ramb said. “I’ve no interest in dealing with the fallout.”
“It wouldn’t be that bad,” Spamton mumbled.
“Oh, you haven’t seen how old Tenna can get,” the barkeep countered. “He’s mellowed out quite a bit since you’ve started working with him more consistently.”
“Huh,” was all Spamton was able to muster in reply. He heard Ramb sigh, muffled by the door between them.
“You’re good on stage,” Ramb admitted. The direct compliment sounded like it was taking the effort of a marathon to say. “You’ve got something good. Tenna might be smitten with you, but he wouldn’t share the spotlight with someone who couldn’t fit under it.”
“Y- huh?” Spamton sputtered. “Ya said ‘e’s what?” Ramb snickered quietly.
“Never mind that.”
“I certainly am gonna be mindin’ that! I don’t need ya up here speculatin’ and spreadin’ rumors!”
“Goes both ways then,” Ramb confirmed to himself. “I thought so.”
“Fuck off.”
“Now now, we’re still in a work environment. Wouldn’t want to get HR involved, would we?” Spamton rolled his eyes at the notion. “Anyway, my point is, whatever you’re beating yourself up over isn’t a big deal. No one’s perfect, lad.”
“There ya go makin’ assumptions again,” Spamton muttered.
“Didn’t hear you deny it,” Ramb countered. “I’m not your father, but if you ask me, I think you need to get over yourself.”
“Wow. What a pep talk. Ya do motivational speeches too by any chance?” He could practically hear Ramb rolling his eyes.
“What I mean is that nobody’s perfect. If you keep burning the candle at both ends, then eventually you’re going to burn the house down.”
“‘S not how the sayin’ goes.”
“Says who?” Spamton didn’t respond. After a moment, he heard Ramb shifting behind the door, picking himself up off the ground. “Just don’t do something stupid like getting yourself killed,” he said finally. “There’s no way in hell I’m handling Tenna with you gone.” Spamton snorted. He heard the door creak as Ramb presumably leaned on it somehow. For a moment, there was silence. Spamton’s eyes were still puffy and his throat was tight. His chest ached with every breath. He could feel his mismatched pieces clattering together with even the smallest motion. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this weak. Not even before.
“You take care of yourself, luv,” Ramb said finally. “I’m not particularly interested in losing my job just yet.”