Chapter Text
There are oft-spoken rumours about Tenna reaching as far back as the dawn of his technology’s existence. How the art of the picture show stretched so far from its humble beginnings as illusionary toys; the hypnotic dance of a phenakistoscope to the secrecy of peepshows, to the film wheels spinning movies that took up entire walls, before shrinking into a box that sipped its film from the quiver of the sky. Television. It began a little silly, a little hopeful, holding the hearts of those who loved and terribly, terribly lost. It sought to take up a corner of the livingroom. A warm fire in an otherwise cold house. Tenna was gentle, modest, black and white.
Then along came the flame of colour television. Westerns sandy and bloody, cooked meals distinguished, and pop quizzes bright with paint and twinkling stars. Music having complementary visuals became a base requirement, and nobody waited to dress it up in glitter and leather and heeled boots. And perhaps this was when questions started to raise their hackles. Tenna often disturbed the prepwork, fingers running through all the lights and garlands as they were pinned up across the stage. He’d twirl on his heels excited, hands clasped, even offering to try on some of the less-than-typical costumes. The crew whispered amongst themselves as he pulled out a pair of satin bunny ears from the box and didn’t immediately put them back. He had gotten… Oddly confident in his conduct. As if anything he said or did was carved into prophecy. It was the Golden Age of Television after all. The Lord of Screens could dabble into anything he wanted.
And what he wanted he did. There wasn’t an inch of snowfall he didn’t make angels in. As long as there was an audience, be it a tender family cuddled up on the sofa or a leering late-nighter with a glass of scotch in hand, Tenna performed his little heart out. Every card up his sleeve, every trick in the book, every pair of eyes on him. He was adored, had his very own cabinet, was dusted from time-to-time, and it often got to his head. He reckoned himself invincible, the very flagship of modern entertainment, destined to hold up against time itself. He was afraid of nothing.
Yet, he had the most pointed reaction when he saw a pair of his audience kiss.
The two that had locked lips weren’t the usual suspects, but in fact, two halves of their respective matrimonies. Two fathers. Tenna was stunned into a few seconds of distortion, his surreal comedy stuttering just long enough to be considered outside off-script. They didn’t even notice. The faint glow of the witching hour stairlight made everything glisten, and Tenna could see it on their lips as they withdrew from one another. He could barely keep the signal steady through his antennae. It was perhaps a mercy when the TV was turned off, giving Tenna the opportunity he needed to storm off to his dressing room. A muffled scream heard by staff from outside the door.
He had never seen such a display outside of jokes, those lighthearted performances pushed by the writers solely to hear the live studio audience yowl. It was funny, it was slashy, it was two men. But this, this, was certainly no stringless fanservice (believe me, he’d know a comedy if he saw one). This was a glimpse of the abyssal plain. Tenna saw what the sun did not care for. Spidered corals, swishing anglers, and comb jellies that lit with striking semblance to his cathode-ray. He saw the start of the end, and he saw himself.
Tenna was a sinking ship.
Despite various reservations about what happened that night through the one-way mirror, it catapulted him into a darker place in himself. Somewhere that made him glance flustered between grizzled jawlines and shirt collars, drink glasses and ashtrays, belt buckles and inseams. Something profane that drew him to watch an addison, with hair black and styled, settle next to him at the bar. He saw a wet mouth open around the lip of a whiskey tumbler and knock back its contents. The smell of a mid-range cologne gentle in the air before the addison caught him staring. This same part of him, itching against his every heartbeat, urged to make an introduction and offer a drink and welcome him to visit the studio, all in one scattered spiel. When the staff had caught wind that Tenna walked a denizen of Cyber City into their green room, hearing how easily he was subdued by the addison’s natural talent for proposition and praise, rumours barely remained rumours.
It came as both a shock to everybody and nobody at once when the addison became employed in the studio. No process, barely even a background check, film experience nada. But Tenna always seemed to find little odd jobs for him to do, and the time to catch him in the hallways for some playful poke and prod. Every excuse to borrow his lighter, fix his collar, bloom under his compliments. The crew had their theories, a few that certainly dragged Tenna for filth. And Mike, the dear confidant of this blundering host, had some choice words to say about the little mailman.
Whether or not the gossip meant anything, one remark always rang true: Tenna was a show business hedon. That is, an attention whore on every angle, a glut for warm words, and a starving dog for a touch under his gloves. But why should he be any less? It got him everything he has, everything he is, and everything he could ever be. All he has to do is talk the talk, walk the walk, and occasionally raise eyebrows. Roll over little television that fought to be more interesting than a newspaper! Roll on strutting cathode-ray peacock! He never needed to learn that the world doesn’t revolve around him. It always did.
Quiet days were never easy.
Face on the desk, he mumbles into pen and paper. This day in particular can be thrown to the wall! It’s been hours now, and he still can’t bring himself to touch the myriad of little tasks ever-so-neatly slotted into his schedule. He regards the diary with waning focus: revise this month’s revenue, write a letter to a potential contestant, call the dry-cleaners about his spare suit. It’s not even difficult; he’s took care of these things many-a-times before. Why is there such a wedge? He traces the list lazily with a pen: kick the watercooler back into working, replace his now-cold coffee, wait on a call from the mailman about a good steal for replacing the wine shelf. The handwriting slurs slightly (he was in a rush at the time) and the last line is barely readable. Something about a delivery? He ought not to write lists. He is a creature of electronic visuals, not lines and lines on paper.
He drops the pen, just to hear it clack against the table. With a groan he runs his hands hard across his television casing, trying to knead out the stress that simply looking at this list has given him. He glances around the room, and is met with mint green walls and their stenciled stars. The decor normally serves to brighten the mood, draw a sense of grandeur into his heart. These were the colours he picked out, after all, back in the yesteryears. He recalls fondly the maiden sail of the new set. Fresh paint, glittering clothes, confetti machines. The audience blown away by the glitz and glamour and hue of it. Tenna can remember just how breathless with excitement he was when he first aired in that striking get-up of yellow and red. He could barely get his words out, stunned to ecstatic silence by the clamour of the audience before him. He felt like a star.
Now, those stars are desaturating under the piercing glare of fluorescent lights. The silence deafening. He stares at one of the stencils for too long, watching it warp as his screen starts to burn with overfocus. The boredom has truly reached him now. Days like these, where he isn’t on set, always drive him both figuratively and literally up the walls. He feels so out of place, dressed up sharp and shimmering, yet slumped hopelessly in a room no louder than the lights. He should be on the open stage, gallivanting the floor, the bones of filming equipment and a hoard of viewers to keep him company. Not here, alone, doing the fucking paperwork. A black and white jail cell of his own design. He has to wonder why he sooner welcomed in a cigar-snipping addison than a secretary. The crew knew what he needed, but as is typical, he just chased after what he wanted.
Desperate to think less, he sits up and turns to the phone. He could call someone, anyone. The temptation to call the aforementioned addison toys with him. He doesn’t know why, or least wants to pretend he doesn’t. He’s not lonely. In fact, he’s been enjoying the peace and quiet. Of course he has! Just… Just needs a little something to break up the monotony. A refreshment! A water-cooler conversation. He briefly considers booking in for another one of those shock therapy sessions, at now o’clock. Those were certainly good at jostling the senses. But his heart isn’t in the idea, its paws are setting neat prints in a different snow. He knows he shouldn’t hassle, but already his mind is coming up with elaborate reason after reason for why he really needs to give this man of business a ring, each excuse more ridiculous than the last.
“Good afternoon Spamton, I just thought I’d check in on the delivery del vino, Mike’s been asking about some pinot grigio—”
“Oh Spamton, could you do me such a favour? I just don’t have the time today to pick up that jacket from the dry-cleaner—”
“Ah! My sweet mailman! Could you be a star and swing by? I want you to crawl in there and just eat me up like the dirty dog you are!”
Tenna growls through his teeth at how the final idea circles him. Crow to carrion. Why is he thinking about that now? Or, more importantly: why does he keep thinking about it? A phantom that never seems to leave him alone.
Why did he let that man so close to him?
Tenna can’t tell if it was a morbid fascination or the slightest glint of hope, but he followed that chirping addison through the curtains and snowfall, driving fast into a maze that glowed from the inside out. Cyber City. Filament ran from core to tip and nobody he met worried if it would catch fire. He knew one thing, they knew everything else. Yet Spamton had been so kind, and had only sought to teach him. With every outfit he tried on, every mouthful of dinner, every lingering touch on the small of his back. It was rife, it was nightlife, it was the bioluminescence of ammonites ancient. Nothing felt out of place under those indifferent streetlights, so he let the addison closer, and closer, and suddenly they were booking into a hotel room together.
Ferris wheel view.
That night on the balcony, bubbling full with flutes of champagne, sweet words and hot breath. The hand holding him steady, lips on his own, tongue tasting static. He remembers the warmth of lying in Spamton’s lap and the pleasant crackle down his spine as fingertips traced over the bulb of one of his antennae. The lazy way they touched one another, movements slow in the haze, until a hand spread over his dress shirt and slipped between the buttons. From there, something sharpened in the addison’s touch. Fingers traced the outlines of his playback components, finding the mechanical keys of his cassette player and the opening flap of his VCR port. He recalls in terrifying clarity how it felt when Spamton pressed in a little, investigating the teeth of gears. He had bitten down on the pillow. At the time, he was sure it was nothing but absent-minded curiosity. All this tactile tech must’ve been fascinating, and Spamton was playing with it like a toy.
Like he was a toy.
What a night that had been. From tender conversation in open air to dogged cable management in the hotel bed. Screws cranked loose and chest panel flung open. Inquisitive hands and wet teeth, prying and dragging along the wires that nestled within. Held down by one of his antennae, tingling as fingers stroked the lengths of RCA leads, squealing at the thrill of one being nearly ripped from its port. Spamton seemed almost as excited as he was. He remembers watching a hand sink entirely into his cabling, like he were nothing more than liquid. The grasp from underneath that he couldn’t see that made everything warble and shriek. How it stroked, slow and all-consuming. The shameful way he wriggled into it. Then it was the thread of drool falling on his cassette player, and that look of hunger that he had never seen before or since, right before Spamton took the entire handful of wires into his mouth. The scene plays on loop in Tenna’s mind, a technicolor fairytale of a night passed that chars him inside out. He can pinpoint each and every bitemark on his wire insulation, he knows it off by heart.
God, that man is filth.
It only occurred to Tenna now that he has begun tracing the stem of an antenna. When did he start doing that? A sane, professional facet of him is screaming from the highest rooftop to stop, but he just doesn’t want to. He knows how sensitive his antennae are, and how much he likes… Adjusting them. Be it to soothe an anxiety, sharpen his signal or in this case, alleviate a long-hanging ennui, Tenna will take any excuse to attend to his namesake. Embarrassingly so. There has been more than one occurrence of having to haphazardly slap together an excuse for why he kept needing to polish them. Sometimes to staff, sometimes to curious contestants; even to Spamton, where the latter of whom had taken it upon himself to bring a set of artist paintbrushes to the studio and—
Tenna shifts in his seat. He pinches the delicate metal of the stem between two fingers and runs from the base all the way up. It gets thinner as it goes, more intense every inch. He reaches the top and strokes back down again, leaning into it. He turns his head towards the far wall of the study and, more importantly, the door. He watches that handle like a hawk. It isn’t likely, but the last thing he wants right now is to be caught in the act. Well. The antenna twitches in his grip. He at least reckons it wouldn’t be practical to be caught, however much the idea seems to make his heart flutter. Unless of course, if that addison found him draped across the desk, antennae in hand, playing with cosmic microwaves… Is that really what’s getting him going today?
As he traces over the bulb of the antenna feather-light, testing the waters, various ideas start to dredge up from his bitten circuitry about what Spamton might do if he caught him. Would he be disgusted? Yank Tenna’s head back by the reins and spit on his screen, only to scoff at what’s barely stifled in his trousers? Maybe he’d drive the heel of his boot right into it.
Or, would he find it amusing? Would he make Tenna sit nice and keep touching himself without any kind of escalation. Just cruel eyes and sharp commands for his hands to stay only on his antennae, nowhere else, despite how much every part of him would ache. He’d start to beg, protest, rocking back and forth with kicking feet. Maybe there would be promise if he behaved. Tenna gropes at the bulb and forces down a moan. He’s getting too into this. If he slides too far down this foxtail he’s going to forget himself, and be wrought with a reminder from outside the room.
Oh but what would the promise be? What would this man describe in wretched detail to make him squirm in the chair. The image of Spamton’s mouth articulating words drags through his mind, but what he’s saying? Tenna can’t decide. Perhaps a drawl about how he’ll be shoved down on the desk and fucked until his legs fall out beneath him. Maybe he’d light up a cigar and get comfortable on the armchair opposite, and from the smoke that hangs around his teeth he would say it. He would tell Tenna how much of a good boy he’s being.
Tenna feels something flood through his components at the idea, warming in his middle. He grabs both antennae and pulls them back so far that his head lifts off the table. He groans. Now, with his throat exposed to open air, he’s surprised by the fact that he wouldn’t mind something wrapped around it. A hand, a tie, a collar. What is this? Is he some kind of puppy dog? When his hands come up to both bulbs and stroke over them in unison, and he all but crumbles under the touch, he reckons the question answers itself. Worse still, as he trembles at the tingling that swims and jitters down his spine, he has the strangest temptation to start kicking his leg. Of course, being a dignified public figure, he will not be doing such a thing. Thank you very much! Not unless someone gives him a good belly rub. Amazing! Now he’s thinking about just how nice that would feel. A mussy scratch over all of those playback buttons and oh the dials, the dials! He tugs on his antennae again and bites his lip at the delicious ache it rouses. He wants it so much.
A debate rattles through his mind. It has been very quiet today, not a single conversation since this morning. The staff are running on a skeleton crew, just keeping the lights on before the next big day of filming. He can hazard a wild guess that he won’t be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. It could be possible to… Get a little more hands-on. Just testing that all is in working order, of course! It wouldn't be difficult to undo a few buttons and tuck a hand underneath his jacket, his dress shirt. But the cost on his reputation if someone, however unlikely, did catch on to what he’s doing… Poof! There goes his acting career. With that in mind, he glances over to the door again. Still closed. Still quiet. He curls an antenna around his finger in a moment of shyness. This feels dirty. He unbuttons himself, just enough to make room for his hand. Gently, experimentally, he traces a fingertip over one of his VCR buttons. Then up to the opening slot, running it back and forth over the lower lip of the port. He listens apprehensively for anyone in the hallway. Unsteadily, he hadn’t realised he was shaking, he untangles his antenna and grabs onto the tip. One last glare at the door handle—ever untouched—as he starts to stroke. This time, accompanied by two fingers sliding into the opening flap of his VCR port.
He has to fight not to buck into the contact. And fight even harder not to let out an embarrassing noise at the sudden flux of sensation. It’s definitely been a while. Ever since that night at the hotel he has been… A little adverse to mimicking the motions. He gets the sense that his attempt would tarnish it, overwrite the memory. It perturbs him to think why, but he wants the glowstick fluid of Cyber City to stay stained inside him, circuits tainted. And perhaps a sicker, more devoted part of him wants to save his body for the addison’s next exploration. But there’s a point. Tenna is not a man known for his patience. This will be counted as a necessary exception.
He works himself slowly, not dipping in too far, as he eases into the act. It feels so wrong to be touching himself like this in the studio study. Gosh, he ought to be ashamed. What would the censors make of it? Somehow, the thought doesn’t serve to hinder him. He curls his fingers in deeper, finding one of his roller guides. This is a component accustomed to the slide of magnetic tape, not fingertips. He presses against it and the feedback is so intense he can’t contain himself. Legs clamp together and a moan slips out against his better judgement. It almost makes him laugh. He’d be awful at a discreet rendezvous. Mere foreplay and he’s already restless in his seat. Oh how Spamton would shake his head. He’d tease him about it too, wouldn’t he? Grope him under the table and tell him he’s being such a bad boy. Take him by the wrist just to put his cigar out on it, and lean down—leering—as he’d lick a stripe over the burn mark. Tenna gasps softly and forces his antenna into his mouth to muffle the whine as he fucks himself to the fantasy. Fangs prod at the metal and cause tiny, needly arcs. His fingers spread to find both roller guides and press on them. He bites down on the antenna, teeth scraping ravenously enough to engrave. The crossfiring pain and pleasure morph and superimpose into something else entirely, he gets so lost in it that he almost forgets where he is.
That is, until the phone rings.
Tenna jumps at the noise, antenna spat out of his mouth. Furiously, he pulls his fingers from his port and grabs the phone, wondering who the hell would be ringing him at such an inopportune time. Then he realises. The wine. Spamton! Oh no, oh no.
With a hand shaky, he brings the receiver close, hoping he doesn’t sound as dishevelled as he is.
“Nyello! Mr Tenna speaking.”
“Ant! You’re never gonna believe it! Just snatched two whole wine crates for next to nothing. Fine wines in here too, guy didn’t know what he was selling me! [[Hellmanns]], even having it all in the back of the ‘dero is making me panic. Got ‘em all tucked up with that blanket. Y’know, the one you gave me, but all these bumps on the roa—” It’s exactly as he feared. Spamton is on the line chattering excitedly about his (frankly impressive) bit of swindling, and the husk in his voice is only serving to make Tenna’s flustered state worse. He hates to admit it, but that man has spoken to the darkest parts of him, easy and liquid smooth, and now seems to inadvertently be doing it again. Tenna does his best to follow along, as Spamton is rhyming off brand names and what he can remember about their taste profiles. But behind the scenes, Tenna’s internals are boiling him alive. It’s sickening. The abandoned VCR slot aches in the hope of an encore, his antenna won’t stop twitching, and what’s straining in his suit trousers is getting less than comfortable. His leg jostles up and down under the desk, trying to distract himself. Is Spamton talking about the white wines now? He isn’t sure. But it reminds him.
“Oh, d-did you manage to get any pinot grigio?” He blurts out, disturbed by how breathless he sounds.
“...Yeah, sure I said I got three bottles.”
“Ah. Ah yes, of course you did,” Tenna says as he tries to remember when.
“Here, you sound busy, we can catch up when I get back. I’ll give you a personal tour of the collection before we hoof it off to the storeroom. And if there’s anything missing, then you just let your ol’ mailman know! You know I’m always happy to—”
“Th-there is one thing! Well, actually, it’s not really a thing. Sounds like there’s enough wine. But, well…” Tenna stiffens with panic, belatedly realising how ridiculous this is.
“Go on,” Spamton’s tone is on the edge of playful, and it makes him want to scream. He’s trying to scrape together an adlib that doesn’t sound outright needy. He glances around the room. There’s not a single talking point. Nothing but the hum of those stupid lights! He gives up and opts for a slice of honesty.
“It’s been quiet today.”
There’s a sound of consideration from the other end of the line, crackling a little in its transit, “Nothing to do?”
“Oh no, plenty,” Tenna corrects, unable to resist the urge to fidget with an antenna again, “It’s… Just rearing to kill me with boredom. I haven’t had a proper chat all day.”
“Aww, itching for contact are you?”
How… How dare he say that. It isn’t fair. Tenna rocks in his seat as the quip strokes him somewhere it really shouldn’t. He really is desperate, isn’t he? The thought of contact. He looks down at his unbuttoned shirt, the sight of one of his channel dials peeking out from underneath. He winces at the thrill that swoops and swirls inside him at the thought of Spamton’s hand touching it. Contact. He swallows, managing a small affirmative sound. His breathing is laboured. He must sound positively a mess.
If Spamton noticed, he doesn’t pay any mind, “Driving right now, so I dunno if I can keep up the best [[Synergy Seminar]]. You sure you want me on the line? You not wanna call—”
“—No this is fine!” Tenna’s voice cracks with static, “I-I don’t feel too chatty today either. Just…” he trails off, shyness stealing away the rest of his words.
“Just lookin’ company?” Spamton finishes, helpfully.
“Mhm.”
“Sure, I can kick it with you.”
There’s a scratchy sound of readjustment and the groan of stretching, before the line falls quiet. Tenna can pick up on the thrum of the car engine, the radio’s tinny music, and the gentle sigh of Spamton’s breathing. The ambience is calming and oddly intimate, perhaps more so than anything else they’ve ever done, despite their… Scandalous history. A warmth sinks into a hidden chasm within his chest, not unlike Spamton’s hand did that night. But rather than drawing out whines and gasps, this drew out a very different feeling. A hushed elation that he doesn’t find upon the show sets, where the compliment isn’t rang from the crowd, but settled in mere connection. A realm where he doesn’t have to dance to have applause. Where he can just belong. He can’t stop smiling as he shifts the telephone receiver to his shoulder, antennae twisting together with a giddy squeak. Nothing is happening, yet Spamton is right there, living and breathing and oh—
A soft noise from the other end. If Tenna was sensible, he’d have brushed it off as contented, but the tail end of his arousal whipped around at the sound of it. Oh what he would do to hear that again. Right in his ear. Coated thick with the tar of poisonous intent. He leans back in the chair, mind once again wandering to places that might infringe on workplace professionalism. Spamton has started to idly hum to whatever song is playing on the radio, and Tenna is listening with utmost fascination. The depth of his range, the grain from his throat, the changing inflections depending on his confidence of the lyrics. Tenna is drinking the nectar. The longer he listens, the more those sounds submerge into his circuitry. So much so, that when Spamton strikes a deeper pitch than usual, he feels it fuzzy in his abdomen. More disturbingly, it catches right on the gears inside his VCR slot.
This is perverse.
There can’t be anything normal about getting aroused by something as trivial as a man humming tunes in the car. There can’t be anything sane about this. Does Spamton know? Is he doing it on purpose? Tenna ought to hang up. He’s become so delirious that the very fabric of the universe could seduce him. What he ought to do is end this phone call, find the nearest bathroom and wrangle every bit of pent up electricity out of his system. He needs to deal with this. He’s still on the phone. He has to go. His dress shirt is pulled out of his trousers to expose his stomach. He has to stop. Fingers are playing with the opening of his VCR again. Why can’t he stop listening? They push inside and rub circles over the gears in time to sung notes. Why is he doing this? It feels so good. God it feels so good. A sigh leaves his lips, before he remembers the two-way nature of a phone call.
“Real pain in the ass that you don’t have a whole lotta admin staff. I know you hate doing paperwork.”
It seems Spamton has—thankfully—misread it for exhaustion. He looks down at himself. His dress shirt is crumpled to the point of an iron job, two of his fingers are buried inside a playback component not designed for the purpose and, oh yeah, he’s full mast under the table. Why yes, paperwork. But Spamton doesn’t need to know that does he?
“You’re telling me! Wish I could just ship it off for a machine to do!” Tenna exclaims, free hand gesturing wildly, “You don’t suppose Cyber City has some wackadoo technology that writes invitation letters, do you?”
Spamton chuckles down the line, “Now that’s a good question!” He moves to turn down the radio before continuing, “But seriously, we need to get you introduced to [[Windows 3.0 with MME]]. It can’t write the letters for you, but you can at least hook up to an inkjet and make copies.”
Tenna runs his thumb over some playback buttons, “Th-that’s what carbon paper’s for.”
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you use it.”
“I like to handwrite contestant letters. Gives it that extra bit of—aha—television charm, don’t you think?”
“Well if that’s the case, why would you want a computer to write them for you?”
“Oh I don’t know! Just having one of those days.”
A sympathetic hum, and the line is quiet again. Tenna realises that he might not be coming across as unaffected as he’d have wanted. Briefly, he once again debates hanging up the call to at least preserve some dignity (and out of respect of the gentleman, surely Spamton doesn’t want to know the kind of “day” he’s having). But a forlorn feeling creeps in at the idea of being left alone again. He wants Spamton’s voice here—all his—at least for a little longer.
“Sounds like you’ve got yourself all [[Twister]] up there, Ant. Might need to fix that ol’ signal,” Spamton jokes, paired with a laugh that lights up parts of his body he wasn’t ready for. A shudder riddles his internals and he actually moans. Shit. There’s a dreadful pause before Spamton speaks again, “You alright over there? Not hurt are you?”
Oh dear sweet innocent mailman! Tenna thanks the stars of his studio that he’s still, somehow, getting away with all this. He reassures that he isn’t hurt, but when Spamton isn’t convinced, an idea strikes him. Fixing his signal. Calibration! His antennae zap upright at the thought, and he explains that he’s been feeling out of sorts and maybe some signal adjustment is just what he needs.
“Ohhh, so you just need to straighten out those deely bobbers?”
“Yes! Exac—excuse me, deely bobbers?”
“Come on Ant, you can’t tell me they aren’t.”
“Antennae, Spamton! Ugh,” he takes one of them in hand and stretches it, “Y’know, that thing on your mobile telephone, your radio, your—”
“Yeah yeah, okay [[Over 50s Lifetime Cover]],” Spamton groans, “And by the way, nobody calls it a ‘mobile telephone’. Making it sound like you’re pulling a rotary phone along in a wagon.”
“Keep talking and I’ll pull you along in a wagon shaped suspiciously like a dumpster!”
Laughing while inside himself certainly feels… Interesting. It takes monumental effort not to vocalise this. He’s having to cut himself off a few times when Spamton rattles on, improvising a whole spiel he’d give to the public while being pulled along in a travelling show. Acclaims of ventriloquism with magic card tricks involving actual debit cards. The whole thing is meant to be silly, but Tenna can barely think with all the cross-firing excitement. Everything is half wheeze, half whine. Push and pull. Leaning into the glee of Spamton’s words and falling back against the chair in overwhelming sensation. He wonders, just for a moment, what it would be like to come mid-laughter. Certainly not something that’s easy to hide from the press.
But he knows what he could hide.
The hand that lay waste to his VCR is carefully pried free. He brings it up to his left antenna, wrapping around the stem, his voice hushed, “You don’t mind if I do some fixing up here, do you?”
“Nah, all good with me.”
“Wonderful! But I’m just warning you now that it might… I might sound a little weird,” he says as he rests fingers on the bulbs of both antennae, a tingle of anticipation zipping between them.
“Sound weird? An old [[Flyback]] like you?”
“I am not old,” his claws sharpen on instinct, tip-tapping on the sensitive metal, “I-I might be considered retro, but there’s class in that,” a slow, unconvincing sound sneers from the other end of the line. He tries to retract his claws but can’t seem to, “Hate to have to do this while we’re on the phone. It can feel a bit… Uncomfortable, but I promise I’m fine.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
And that was all the permission he needed.
He scrapes his claws across the antennae and gee whiz, if he had eyes they would’ve started watering. It’s so overwhelming that his body just doesn’t even react at first, no more than a mere shiver. He keeps going, leaning back into his seat and starting to pant. Puppy dog television. Roughing himself up with big, sharp hands. Shoulder scrunching the phone to his ear to hear Spamton tap on the steering wheel. Letting his legs hang open to show off to nobody in particular just how aroused it’s making him. Loopy on the crackling through his body, he nearly forgets to hold back a giggle. He drags a hand down his body in the very possessive way Spamton would. Across the chest panel, the glassy cassette case, past the fucked-out VCR all the way down to the dials. He traces a finger over the first one, the VHF channel dial, and hiccups down the line. There’s a pause, and he squirms in anticipation.
On any television set, an intimate relationship exists between two particular components. The part that detects electromagnetic frequency, and the part that selects it. Both lean on one another to paint a picture on the screen. You can’t pick a show without a channel dial, and you can’t see it without a well-pointed antenna. Both intrinsically intertwined. So much so, that when Tenna gives the dial a little press, threatening to click it into a new position, a dazzling signal shoots up to the very tips of him. Claws catch it on one side and let it linger. It’s almost too much. He knows what this is going to do to him, and he can only pray that Spamton doesn’t figure out the true nature behind it.
A deep breath, and he cranks the dial.
The information floods through his circuitry, touching every part of him before it reaches his antennae. It’s sharp. He bucks into it. When the stroke of his hand at the tip causes a feedback loop all the way back down, and it just keeps going and going and going, a wobbly noise falls out of him. Another turn of the dial makes the intensity skyrocket, excited wires shaking in their solder, frequency wavering on his screen. He’s getting dizzy, the room starting to spin on its own turntable. He can barely feel the chair he’s sitting in, stars on the wall staggering up to the ceiling, Spamton’s breathing. Back and forth he turns the dial between channels, sensations building, until something—a squeal—strains in his throat.
“...Don’t be hurting yourself over there.”
“I’m—nngh—not!”
Spamton hums thoughtfully down the line. Tenna reaches further down, finding the UHF dial, and gives it a few experimental clicks. It draws a whine out of him. He twists it slowly, feeling fuzzy all over while a particular warmth settles in his lower half. A distant voice of reason is telling him that this is downright too far, but it’s too addictive, too indulgent. He couldn’t stop if he tried. All he can do is imagine what it would be like to let Spamton explore this part of him, dexterous hands on his channel dials, teeth on his contrast settings; see how far this man can sever him from reality. He feels himself twitch under his trousers, but has been danced too well into lust’s delirium to bring himself to free it. Lost to playing with the television channels, drunk on how wonderful it feels, Tenna opens his mouth but reason doesn’t join it.
“W-wish you were here right now,” he’s breathless, barely present.
“Really? Need [[Emotional Support Animal]]?”
Tenna whines through gritted teeth, leg kicking into the floor. Shit.
“You sure you’re meant to [[Do It Yourself Kit]] this?”
“Absolut—oh wow—I know what I’m d-doing, hah! Not a problem over here no siree just… Mmm! Bit intense is all.”
“Right…” Spamton shuffles, Tenna can hear the squeak of the window being wound up and the radio muted, “Anything I can do to help? Can’t make it to the studio for at least another hour, sea of red lights ahead. But you’ve got me here on the phone.”
“Can you just… Talk to me?”
“About what? The weather?”
Tenna takes a moment to breathe, speaking like this is an art he has yet to master. He feels like a live wire, buzzing, ready to snap. He loosens his grip on the dial and traces circles over it, before moving to draw a figure of eight around both. Teasing.
“Tell me anything… Please. Please~”
“Okay okay!” Spamton laughs, “I can tell you about my day if it’s gonna [[rub some aloe vera on that burn]]!”
Shame it would do anything but.
“I mean, where do I start? Woke up and had my coffee, made sure it was double so I could at least pretend to care about all those outfits I was modelling. Normally don’t bother with that scene anymore, but I owed one of the addisons a solid. So here’s me, getting suited and booted in flares and a crop—”
Tenna leans not into the words, but the very sound of Spamton’s voice. It’s so close, it’s so far, it’s echoing against the inside of his casing. Speaking to his wires like they belong to him. Tenna gropes the dial, twisting it around with a force that doesn’t lend itself to typical use. The feedback is delicious, noughts and crosses through his circuitboards.
“—Had to explain that no, you can’t just put a priceless vase in the middle of the floor and expect it to stay in one piece. People run around those halls like they’re scared of the paintings or something. But she was dead set, y’know, really acting like [[who art in heaven]] in that big leather spinny chair of hers, treating me like—”
Oh. That drew an image on Tenna’s phosphor. God-like, Spamton sat upon a leather throne, while he looked up from the floor like a dog. Mid-meeting, stakeholders, in a thorough discussion well beyond Tenna’s intel. Something something dot-com bubble, something something embedded links. How Tenna would wrap his arms around the addison’s leg, rub against his shoelaces, beg to get into his lap. How Spamton would tut, conversation unbroken with his company as he’d move his foot just slightly for him.
“—Wasted nearly an hour. Kept complaining about the so-called quality decline of battery acid, complete fucking [[The Royal Family]] talk!”
Tenna would give anything to have an hour wasted on him by this savvy little mailman. He’d hope to be grabbed by his tie, dragged out from under the table and into the warmth of Spamton’s lap, pet like an oversized wizard’s familiar. How everyone would gawk—rightfully surprised—while he was brushed off as nothing but a needy puppy. Have to give this one a belly scratch every now and then to shut it up.
Following along, Tenna actually starts to whine. The dial chitters as he twists it the whole way round, vibrations shuddering through him. It should be Spamton’s hand doing this. It has to be him. Nobody else. The implications slip through the spread fingers of his mind as it dizzies with the idea of being owned by another man. In this moment, it feels right. Wanton conviction falling in love. The other end of the line goes quiet.
“...Everything still oka—”
“Keep talking! Keep talking! Oh my god plea—”
“Alright alright! W-well I got out of there and drove over to the vineyard. Picking up that wine order. Seller wasn’t there yet so I had a smoke and walk arou—”
Nothing matters anymore. It’s just the sound of Spamton’s voice, the buzzing signals from dial to antenna, and what’s growing in the nether of him. If he’s being loud about it then it’s the next eavesdropper’s problem. He has to have this. If he were draped in Spamton’s lap, leaning into the handling, he’d absolutely shove his straining erection into that mailman’s hand, grind like an animal against his cuffs. He swears under his breath at the visual of Spamton holding him down, unbuckling his belt and slipping a hand underneath. The searing pleasure in its wake. If he could cry he would sob. And Spamton would surely make a disgracing joke about it, calling it typical Tenna behaviour. This one is just a slut for attention.
It’s almost painful—it is—to know that Spamton would be entirely right. Tenna wants nothing more than to be seen, paid mind, loved forever and always. He’ll seek it any which way he can. He’ll have it in the empty green room, the balcony champagne, the kinks along his wires. Honour be damned! If he needs to be completely consumed by this man to belong, then he’ll sneak backstage to offer both his legs and everything in between. Could it not be this way? Spend the rest of his life a soaring kite hooked under collar and leash. Spamton’s little showstopper on the streets and plaything in the sheets. He begs to the universe. Would it be so wrong?
He’s hit the seafloor, four miles deep.
At some point, Spamton had stopped recounting his day and began to speak in soft reassurances. That he’s still here, still talking. That Tenna is being brave for “taking his castor oil”. That everything is going to be okay. It’s suddenly concerned and warm and Tenna’s lust-addled brain is getting emotional over it. He wants the fuss, the gentle words, while he lies with Spamton. He wants held like he’s the most precious thing alive. He wants to see that addison’s sickly sweet smile as he’s groped under his trousers. Those hands should be all over him. Caring, claiming, never letting go. The phantom touches are teetering him dangerously close to the edge. He wants… He wants to hear just one more thing. If he can even ask for it.
“Oh—mmhf—Spamton? Can y-you tell me?” Tenna can barely say a word, his vocals a creature possessed, “A-am I—nggh—being good?”
“Uh… Yeah,” Spamton seems confused, but plays along, “You’re being good. Looking after your antennae and all.”
Tenna gasps at the praise. He yanks his dial and antenna, legs bending inwards slightly, it feels so good, “Mmmmm you’re so, so, s-so nice to me. I—ngh—oh, oh geez, oh f-fffuu-aaghh!!”
The telephone receiver drops to the floor as he comes. Right there, in his pants, hard.
Aftershocks shudder him as the room slowly comes back into focus, mind still bewildered by what just happened. He looks down, moving his leg slightly and wincing at how sticky he feels. This isn’t like him. Across one thigh is the taut cord of—
In a scramble he snatches the phone off the floor, dread sinking in as he brings it up to his ear.
“Aha! Hello again! Sorry, phone slipped.”
“Uh huh.”
The silence that follows is nothing like the idyllic comfort it was before, the tension could be cut with a knife. Tenna can barely hear breathing, and what he does hear sounds choked, startled. Oh he’s really crossed a line now hasn’t he?
“Were you able to… Fix it? Your signal?”
“Mhm yes, all in working order! Crystal clear now!”
“Ah, good…” Spamton trails off, seemingly distracted.
Tenna feels like he should say something—anything—to unravel this, maybe explain himself just a little. Where does he even begin? Not exactly polite to tell your coworker you got handsy under the desk to the sound their voice. But surely less polite to pretend that this was all in the name of some technical recalibration. He twiddles the phone cord between his fingers nervously as he tries to hash out how best to put this. But doesn’t get the chance to.
“Well… If you ever need them [[Dealy]] bobbers fixed again just [[call Bigshot Autos today!!]] and I can do it. Ahaha—aaaaand I gotta go! Laters!”
“Wait hold o—” but Spamton has already hung up.
What the hell was that?
Tenna tentatively sets the phone back on its switch hook, and brings his hand to his stomach, shirt crumpling in his grasp. He’s done it again, hasn’t he? Let that gnawing animal in his simulated heart get ahold of the motor controls and wreak havoc. Couldn’t hold it together, not even for a moment, could he? For this man, he can never seem to. He leans over the desk, scrabbling at the drawer underneath to find anything to clean himself with. Nothing. Instinct nudges to call on Mike, but that’s out of the question. He’ll have to do the wet walk of shame to his dressing room. How riveting. The diary once again catches his eye.
He’s done… Ha! None of it. Not a dicky bird! And what’s worse is he reckons it won’t be done by the end of the day either, not after that. He feels ready to take a nap and maybe die in his sleep while he’s at it. Spamton did not seem amused by his little antic on the phone. He shouldn’t have done it. He knew he shouldn’t have done it. But when his hands possessed a mind of their own he made no attempt to stop it. And he… Untouched? Thinking of the mailman? Asking if he had been good like anything that was going on was even remotely close?
What is wrong with him?
His head falls into his hands as he shrinks in the chair. Something must be faulty in his system, a criss-crossed wire, a bad solder job. It reeks from his heartbeat to his fingertips and seems to drag him—hook, line and sinker—into the fisher boat of this strange addison. It beheads him and guts him and throws him to the bucket to choke. Leaves him to wonder. What could he have been had he not let this man in? Could he have still been fresh and dandy and adored? Or did he need the poison? Surely not. It’s doing things to him that would have him shot by the censors, and it’s not half as hidden as he’d like. Is this… Is this going to be career ending?
Spamton’s last remark blooms in his mind.
Tenna has to wonder what he meant by that. Did he mean it from a mechanic’s perspective or something else entirely? And… Well, it’s a strange thing to offer if you’re disgusted by what you heard. Tenna lifts his head, rubbing his neck, the faintest bit of relief striking him.
“I can do it.”
He parrots the phrase in a blur of query and afterglowing hope. He’s unsure what to make of it, but the thought excites him all the same. Antennae twine around each other. If the way this man treats him in a hotel bed is anything to go by, he can only imagine what technical repairs could entail. Tenna stares awestruck across the room at the idea. Once again met with the mint green walls, the stenciled stars, both somehow a little more colourful than before. How is it, despite everything wrong with it, the thought of Spamton’s attention alone makes him so damn happy? He could almost throw his life to the wind for it. Roll over faceless audience, roll on the eyes of an addison. And why does he want this man so much? It’s not a question he found the answer for by the end of the day. But no matter.
Tenna will always go after what he wants.