Chapter Text
Insomnia is defined as a sleep disorder that causes difficulty falling asleep or staying asleep for as long as desired. It can be caused by mental health issues, different medicines or products (such as caffeine and various prescription drugs), medical conditions and, probably most common of all, stress. Unfortunately for Spamton, he’s been stressed since the day he was born.
It’s not surprising really. Back when he was an Addison, there was the pressure of having to close a deal or else he’d be sleeping on the streets that week—An outcome that occurred more often than not. Then, once his benefactor found him, it got a little easier—But there was still the pressure to keep climbing, to be a Big Shot. And now? Partnering with an unstable, meltdown-prone TV host on perhaps the greatest studio deal one could have? Well, it isn’t exactly a walk in the park.
So yes, Spamton’s insomnia has been a little worse than usual recently. He’s tryna get his big break in a world inherently averse to change, to newness. Hell, he’s been working at the studio for almost four months now and he still gets the cold shoulder from most of the other staff. He continues to get called the mailman even though he doesn’t do just the mail segments anymore. At this point, he’s practically the fucking co-host and he still gets no respect from the employees of TV Time. Even Tenna treats him more like a beloved pet than an equal, though judging from the way the host acts with his other staff, Spamton doesn’t think it’s anything personal. Still, being fucking man-handled like a doll every time Tenna sees him is starting to get on his nerves, even if it is sometimes admittedly very cute to watch Ant get so excited to see him that he just has to pick Spamton up and twirl him around.
Woah. Wait. Cute? Since when did he think of Tenna as cute?
Angel, I’m even more tired than I thought, he thinks anxiously, running a hand down his face like that’ll help chase away the fatigue that has settled inside his bone marrow.
The point is, even though Spamton’s midway through fulfilling all of his wildest dreams right now, he’s still stressed. And when Spamton’s stressed, he can’t sleep, no matter what he does.
Usually it gets to a bad enough point that his body just breaks down, conking out completely, enough for him to be decently energised by the time he wakes up. This time, however, he seems to be out of luck.
Spamton hasn’t slept for nine days.
Granted, as a non-physical Darkner, he doesn’t need as much sleep as others. His code allows for physical things such as sickness, sleep-deprivation, and even hunger to not affect him so much. He can go for hours without eating and still feel fresh as a daisy, and it even takes more booze to get him drunk than physical Darkners, which is why he tends to favour the strong stuff. So occasionally he does forgo sleep for a few nights, usually because he’s too busy or just not interested in sleeping, and he can still function normally. However, he starts to feel the effects at around night four of no sleep. And after night after night of laying in the dark doing absolutely fucking nothing and still not falling asleep, Spamton is decidedly, most definitely, fucking exhausted.
He’s currently sitting in the employee breakroom alone at the start of another sleep-deprived day, drinking his third coffee of the morning and feeling like death. He’s just grateful all of the staff are busy so that no one can see him in this condition. He feels sluggish, he can barely walk, and yet he knows that if he closed his eyes, sleep wouldn’t come. Thankfully, he isn’t recording today—Tenna decided to give him a break, after he spent the last three weeks juggling all his new responsibilities flawlessly and without rest. Usually, Spamton would insist that he’s fine and doesn’t need to be babysitted, but he knows he’s already struggling to function today without being in front of a live audience and under headache-inducing lights. His benefactor won’t be happy, but they haven’t called Spamton for the last week, so honestly, what do they expect Spamton to do?? Collapse onstage?! There’s no fucking way that Spamton is risking his career because of stupid insomnia, benefactor be damned!!
Spamton groans out-loud and lets his head drop on the table in front of him. It’s a testament to how tired he truly is, that he’s disrespecting his benefactor, his saviour. With how his friend seems to know everything that Spamton thinks or feels, he has no doubt that they’ll catch wind of Spamton’s current frustrations, but honestly he’s too tired to bring himself to care at the moment.
“Spamton, there you are!” A chipper, and very unwelcome, voice breaks through Spamton’s exhausted haze. The former Addison almost groans again, but catches himself just in time, and instead forces his face into its usual sleazy salesman grin (which right now is more of a grimace) before leaning back in his seat and looking up to greet the boob-tube known as Mr. Ant Tenna, his very energetic and manic boss. The TV host is clearly off the clock, with his signature red blazer missing from his person and no clipboard clutched in his hand. His extension-cord tail, which he usually conceals underneath his overcoat, bobs playfully and freely in the air, and Spamton has to tear his eyes away from its almost hypnotic motions.
“Tennaaa!” Spamton says, trying and failing to keep his voice from slurring. “Thought y’ would be [live on air!] alllll day today?” Tenna looks taken aback for a moment, probably ‘cause Spamton sounds like he’s both high and drunk simultaneously, but recovers quickly. That’s Ant, after all; Always the perfect showman. The TV in question smiles only slightly hesitantly, before joining Spamton in sitting down at the breakroom table. Spamton momentarily gets distracted by the Very Important Task of glaring enviously at the way Ant’s feet touch the ground when he sits on the high stool, while Spamton’s left with his legs dangling in the air like a kid. Being short sucks.
“That was the original plan, yes,” Tenna says, clasping his hands in front of his stomach and cocking his head side-to-side with a slightly sheepish expression. Spamton can’t help but smile a little at the display—Ant has a shit ton of little mannerisms like that, and while they can normally be passed off as part of his usual ‘eccentric performer’ image, Spamton gets the feeling that they're just genuinely a part of his real personality. Like stimming, he thinks, remembering the way Yellow had once explained to him the repetitive motions some ‘neurodivergent’ (he thinks that’s the right word) people will do, to help with calmness and regulation. He distantly wonders whether Ant is like Spamton, too, before realising he’s zoning out and not listening to a word of what Tenna is saying. He forces himself to pay attention, rubbing the bleariness out of his eyes. “-And then Kris decided to just play Owls 2: The Hootening instead, and now I get to take a take a small break while the console takes care of the broadcast! So, well, I thought I’d come find you.” Tenna says the last sentence with a bashful little smile, fiddling with his hands slightly and looking away from Spamton, and the mailman gets the sudden urge to hug the TV host like a plush toy.
Nope, nuh uh, that’s the insomnia talking, he tells himself instead, shaking his head slightly like that’ll get rid of the weird thoughts suddenly rattling around in his skull. And did anyone else hear that buzzing noise?
“Yayy!” He says stupidly after a moment of silence in which he remembered he’s supposed to say stuff back when conversing with someone. It comes out high-pitched and light, like he’s a fucking nine-year-old being told they’re going to the fair later today, and he can’t stop himself from wincing at the sound. Apparently, this is out of character enough for Tenna to immediately look concerned. Sure, not-sober Spamton isn’t exactly out of the usual, but cheerful Spamton? Now that’s a symptom, and a serious one at that.
“Are you, um, alright?” The CRT asks, forever polite. “You seem a little...” He trails off, as if unsure himself of how exactly his co-host is acting, and Spamton almost kicks himself. Okay, it’s fine, he can fix this—He just has to say something that’ll immediately explain away any of his behaviour without sounding incompetent. He’s sure Tenna would be more hesitant of letting Spamton handle some of the bigger responsibilities around the studio if he knew he can’t even do sleeping right.
“I’m [peachy keen!], CRT!” He says, totally very effectively, throwing his arms up and out like he’s presenting a product to a customer. Unfortunately, this has the unlucky effect of immediately making him lose his balance, and Tenna has to catch him with a shout of “Woah, careful!” before he tumbles off of the chair. The TV host’s large hands linger on Spamton’s shoulders as he rights himself on the stool, as if making sure he stays put, and Spamton feels somehow even drunker with the warm touch.
Tenna pulls back from Spamton but still hovers his hands in front of him, looking even more concerned. Spamton attempts to grin at him reassuringly, though the best he can manage is another grimace. Ant, unsurprisingly, does not look reassured.
“Are you sure? You’re not sick or anything, are you?” He asks, anxiety evident in his voice. “If you’re sick, you should go home and recover.” Spamton can practically pinpoint the moment Tenna switches into concerned mother-hen mode, can see how the TV is trying to resist the urge to check him over himself. The mailman would roll his eyes if they weren’t half-closed already.
“I said m’fine,” He says instead, giving in to the urge to put his head back down on the cool table. Look, it’s not his fault they made skulls so heavy! He should be congratulated that he managed to keep it up even this long! “Don- don’t wooorry so much, Tens, you’re always worrying.” Tenna huffs, effectively offended, but apparently still not deterred from his task of fussing over his little mailman (That possessive pronoun shouldn’t be there, but Spamton’s very limited energy is too focused on understanding the words coming out of the CRT’s speakers to filter his thoughts anymore, so he digresses).
“You don’t look fine; You’re practically melting onto the table!” The TV (annoyingly accurately) points out, apparently deciding that enough is enough and reaching over to grab hold of Spamton, scooting his chair closer until their legs are practically touching in the process. The CRT pulls Spamton off the table, much to the email’s chagrin, which he conveys with a very manly and not embarrassing at all thank you very much high-pitched whine, before propping Spamton up in his stool by placing a hand at the small of his back. He then places a hand over Spamton’s forehead to check his temperature, and wow hey, this actually isn’t so bad. Why hadn’t Spamton come to Tenna sooner with his sleeping troubles?? His warm, large hands, slight smell of ozone and the faint sound of mechanical whirring in his chest are all perfect for sleeping. It’s so comforting just having Tenna’s hands on him that Spamton feels himself droop further, barely resisting the urge to lean into Tenna’s chest, which he has ever-so-temptingly placed right beside Spamton.
“You’re not burning up...” Tenna mutters, going full doctor mode, and Spamton hums a sound that may have been an attempt at saying I told you so, idiot box, but he’s so tired and feels so little and Tenna’s so warm that he really can’t be bothered to be his usual antagonistic self right now. Tenna pulls his hand away, instead grabbing Spamton by the chin and tilting his face upwards towards Ant’s own. “Your eyes are drooping though. Feeling fatigued?” Spamton squints at him, the light from his screen assaulting the salesman’s eyes in a very offensive way. How come Tenna gets flustered by the slightest of things normally, yet he’s fine with acting this way with Spamton now? Why can’t he touch me this way all of the time?
Ah. Well. No. That’s not at all what he wants. Boy, this insomnia sure is talkative, ain’t it?
“M’just tired, Dr. Tennaville, ge’roff.” Spamton manages to mumble out, statement slightly undercut by the way he pushes further into Tenna’s space slightly, unable to stop himself. Luckily, Tenna doesn’t seem to notice, too busy stressing over Spamton’s less than optimal condition. Ant’s just so fucking cozy, Spamton really can’t be blamed for wanting to be closer to him. He even feels his own fluffy tail give a few sleepy little wags, poking out from underneath his blazer, and the salesman thanks his lucky stars that the CRT is distracted right now, else he’s sure he’d never hear the end of it. Damn embarrassing bird features, messing up his suave and nonchalant businessman personality!! Yet more annoying relics of his Addison beginnings.
“Tired?” Tenna echoes tensely, sounding like Spamton had just told him he has an incurable virus. “Did you get any sleep last night? You slept in your room here, right? Is everything okay, it wasn’t too loud in the studio? There’s always some kind of equipment being moved around—Does it usually bother you?” Spamton blocks out Tenna’s fretting after a moment or two, too sleepy to really focus on what Ant’s saying. He feels like he’s getting more tired with every passing second, which isn’t helped by the comforting presence of his boss. Has Tenna always been this soothing? Even his voice is calming to listen to, and Spamton feels himself relax even further. His whole body feels almost floaty, and it’s like he’s one step away from finally, finally falling asleep. He just needs... a little more...
Ant squeaks in a frankly adorable way when Spamton finally lets himself fall against the TV’s chest. His artificial body is warm and solid, and the mailman hums in satisfaction, turning his face to press it into Tenna’s shirt, nuzzling in like the motion could allow him to burrow further into Ant’s warmth.
“Sp-Spamton??” The CRT questions frantically, voice high and confused, and Spamton has a feeling he’d be able to see a familiar pink glow emanating from his screen if the salesman could actually keep his eyes open right now. “Wh-What are you...?”
“Hngg... tired...” Spamton mumbles again, clutching at the fabric on Ant’s sides like a child. He wants to convey the fact that he needs Ant here with him, now, without having to expend the energy to actually say that. “...hold....” Is all he manages to get out, which seems to be enough to get his message across, as he feels Tenna grow several sizes larger, almost dislodging Spamton from his death grip on Ant’s shirt in the process.
“Oh! Uh, well, um,” Tenna stammers, and in any other situation Spamton would delight in being able to fluster his co-host so easily, but right now all he wants is Tenna’s warmth to cover him completely. Luckily, Tenna gets over his surprise at Spamton’s uncharacteristic clinginess (yuck) quickly, and wraps his arms around Spamton. His arms easily encircle the mailman’s entire body, and it feels amazing, HEAVENLY, Spamton feels like he could fall asleep right here and now. Even Tenna’s tail hooks itself around Spamton’s ankle, and the sensation somehow makes him even more light-headed. “Is... Is this okay?” Tenna’s voice is shaky, unsure, but also almost giddy, and it makes Spamton want to do something silly like giggle. Attempting to convey a resounding YES, he wiggles closer to Tenna, attempting to manoeuvre himself onto the TV’s lap for maximum comfort, the wagging of his own tail picking up speed. Tenna snorts in amusement, and Spamton thinks that if he wasn’t currently drunk with fatigue, he’d be offended. Instead, all he can feel is a wash of relief, of euphoria, as Ant gets the message and picks Spamton up to move him so that he’s curled up properly on the CRT’s lap.
Tenna’s arms adjust to cradle the small mailman more comfortably, and yep, this is it, this is the perfect place to sleep—It took Spamton a couple of decades, but finally, he’s found it. He buries his head into the crook of Ant’s neck, inhaling the scent of ozone like a drug, and the fans on the side of Tenna’s head whirr faster.
“Golly, you certainly are cuddly when you’re tired!” He says with a breathy laugh, and there’s clear awe in his voice which Spamton knows will be a very ego-boosting thing to remember after he sleeps for like, at least ten hours. “You’re so cute like this.”
Spamton has a feeling Ant is just word-vomiting whatever’s in his head right now ‘cause he’s nervous, but still feels faintly disrespected, so makes sure to make a no-no noise and shake his head softly to get that across. He would kick up more of a fuss, but Tenna has started to scratch gently at the nape of Spamton’s neck with his claws, and it feels too fucking good for him to be able to care much about anything right now. He yawns, and isn’t it just a blessing to be able to do that and know that he can finally sleep now?
“If you want, we can go to my dressing room. You can sleep for as long as you need there,” Ant suggests softly, shifting slightly so he can brush his claws through Spamton’s hair. “Plus, it might be better to go somewhere more, um, private? So that you won’t be disturbed?” He phrases it like a question, but seeing as Spamton’s too tired to do much more than hum at the moment, he gets the feeling Ant’ll move ‘em no matter what. Doesn’t matter anyway—As long as Tenna keeps on holding Spamton like this, he can do whatever the heck he wants. The salesman’s already half-asleep at this point, so it’s not like he really cares.
Sure enough, Spamton feels Ant adjust his hold again, and then comes the sensation of being weightless as Ant stands up with Spamton in his arms. He tucks his face into Tenna’s neck further, not willing to get blinded by any stray studio lights while Ant makes his way to his dressing room. The journey had to have taken a few minutes at least, but in Spamton’s floaty, barely conscious haze, it feels like hardly a second has passed when he feels Tenna’s arms move him so that he’s lying horizontally on something soft. He grabs at Ant’s arms blindly as they begin to recede from him, suddenly struck with a panic that Tenna will leave him and the promise of sleep will be ripped away from him again before he got the chance to recover any of his energy back.
“It’s okay, Spamton,” Ant’s calming voice soothes him, reassures him. “I’m just going to tell Mike to let me know when the Lightners use the channels again.” Spamton whines annoyedly, but lets Tenna go—After all, the Lightners always come first. He waits impatiently, arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light. The last thing he’d wanna do right now is fuck up his progress in getting to sleep; As long as he stays as sleepy and drowsy as he currently is, brain and body both ready to conk out, he should be okay.
He registers the sounds of Tenna coming back, closing and locking the door behind him, before the welcome warmth and weight of the TV envelops him once more. He squints open his eyes slightly to see that they’re lying on Tenna’s couch together, Tenna on the outside edge facing in towards Spamton. The position allows Spamton to snuggle into Tenna’s chest and neck while also letting Tenna’s arms to wrap around him easily, but it can’t be very comfortable for Ant himself. Still, when Ant notices Spamton looking at him, he grins and bonks his screen against the top of Spamton’s head gently.
“Hi.” He whispers, like this is normal, like they do this all the time, and with the last of his energy right before he finally drifts off to get some much-needed rest, Spamton smiles back at the CRT, nuzzling in closer until the smell of ozone washes over him like a blanket and there’s nothing but warmth, comfort and Tenna. He barely registers the feeling of Tenna’s tail wrapping affectionately around one of Spamton’s legs before he finally, blissfully, drops off to sleep.