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There's a lot of positives to being a robot. He never forgets his scripts, for one, and he doesn't have to worry about sweating under the spotlight, or wasting time on silly things like breaks, or running out of breath mid-line, or— heaven forbids— wrinkles. But, like everything, it has its downsides.
This was definitely one of them.
Unlike organic beings, he couldn't regenerate. Where most would cut their finger and be free to continue on with their day, reassured by the fact it'd heal eventually, Tenna had to glue the injury shut himself. It was annoying, especially when it clashed with his schedule, and injuries were never considerate about when they were going to show up.
He's trying to ignore it, laugh along with Spamton's jokes, keep himself from grimacing as he feels his chest buzz uncomfortably, something loose rattling with every movement.
He may have gone a little overboard today, knocked something out of whack, and usually that wasn't a big deal (he'd just slope off after the show, reattach the wire and be good as new!), but not today. Today, Spamton had grabbed him before he even had a chance to get off stage, and in the onslaught of congratulations and easy compliments Tenna barely realised where they were going until it was too late, a drink in his hand and arm stretched around his shoulder. It was so easy to get lost in the guy, let the mood get the better of him and start stalling for time. Eventually, the two drinks he'd promised himself turn into five and Ramb was starting to close the bar, so he’s dragged— yet again— into their dressing room, mindlessly basking in the man's glow and feeling utterly incapable of leaving it.
A half-drank bottle of whiskey rests on the table– some semi-expensive brand Spamton always insists on getting– and the air is filling up with cigar smoke. It filters through his vents in an not entirely unpleasant way. It’d just take a moment, not long at all, he could lie and say he's going to the bathroom, hope his co-star’s drunk enough not to realise the illogicity there. He’d be back in a jiffy.
Spamton grins at him, drunk-flushed and slack-jointed-- soft around the edges. He pats excitedly at the CRT’s arm as he rambles.
“And that's when I said, ‘if you didn't want a trojan, you shouldn't have asked for a HORSE!!’”
Tenna laughs, though he doesn't get the joke in the slightest, and then his whole world quakes. A horrible, high-pitched noise cuts through him, his vision crashing into darkness for just a second before he's back, grabbing onto his monitor with a groan.
“Woah! You alright there, big guy? The joke wasn't THAT funny,” he’s laughing, but moves to put his drink down, eying him like he might explode.
“Yeah- yeah, sorry, em- I'm fine, just a small technical difficulty! Hah!”
“Too much booze?”
“No, I- er-” he coughs, trying to stop that damn stutter, “Just pulled something during the show, no biggie, I'll fix it later! What was it you were saying?”
“Looked serious.”
“I'm fine, Really! See?!”
He spreads his arms wide and smiles as bright as he can, the movement a little too quick in its desperation and throwing the contents of his drink in the process. He curses, patting at his soaked sleeve as Spamton just lets out another awkward laugh.
“Yeah, sure seems like it.”
Tenna laughs back, feeling his screen flush in embarrassment before taking a sip of whatever was left of his drink, hoping that'll be the end of it. It isn't. Spamton keeps staring, way too quiet, his eyes falling to his partner’s chest.
“You know, I've been told I'm a [Top of the line!!] mechanic. Bet I could fix you up [faster than any other brand].”
For some reason his screen flushes even darker as he pauses, looking at Spamton, a little less drunk than him, a lot smaller…
Maintenance was always such a hassle, he never liked doing it himself. There's so many hard-to-reach places and he could never quite get the mirror at the right angle to see what he's doing. He prefers going to the mechanic, but for such a small issue like this that would be ridiculous (and ridiculously expensive.)
But… Spamton's from Cybercity! He has tech skills coming out the wazoo! Plus, the guy's so short he could probably just crawl right in and– well, that's maybe a little much, but his scale could definitely be useful…
“You've done maintenance before?”
“Oh, a [earn millions and millions!!] times! Some of the guys in cybercity– hell– I was practically performing surgery!!”
Spamton's eyes shine up at him with a strange eagerness, taking one last swig of his drink before slamming it down, balancing his cigar in his teeth as he practically crawls over. A hand goes to grab the TV’s collar, pulling at the fabric with an impatience that leaves Tenna… a little lost for words.
“I know my stuff, trust me! You're in capable hands, Mr Tenna, just [sit back and enjoy the ride]!"
“Okay! Well! If you're sure!”
Tenna places his emptied drink down next to the other, watching how his hands shook slightly as he did. He's not sure why they're doing that. This is... fine. It'll be just like any other maintenance check, if anything it should be even less nerve-wracking! He knows Spamton after all, who wouldn't trust a friend to do their maintenance?
Maybe he really did have too much to drink.
He leans back against the couch cushions, making an effort to keep his hands steady as he starts to unbutton his shirt.
“Didn't you hear me [Cathode]? I said sit back and relax!”
Suddenly, he’s being pushed flush against the sofa, short limbs crawling over him until they're situated comfortably on his lap. All Tenna can do is gawk, his entire body going rigged.
“Too close?” the mailman teases, fingers already fiddling with shirt buttons, “Rather lay down on a table?”
“No-! No! I just-” Tenna’s hands float awkwardly midair, scared to move and touch something he shouldn’t, “Isn't this a little…?”
“It's just wires, Tenna, not like you've got anything fun under there,” he pauses for a second, catching the TV's gaze with a grin that could only be described as salacious, “or maybe I'm wrong…?”
His screen glitches into a deep red.
“Nope! Nada! Nothing like that! Sorry!” SORRY???????
Spamton laughs, it smells like booze and tobacco.
This is all so… bizarre. Tenna can't keep up with it. He absently finds himself staring down at their laps, the smooth plane of his pelvis against— something. He catches the thought before it could go any further, helpfully distracted by his shirt falling off his shoulders and a small hand lining down the segmentation of his chest.
Of course, Spamton had seen him shirtless before, but this was different, he’s really looking now, all the attention on him in a way that (maybe for the first time in his life) he doesn’t completely enjoy. Tenna tries to keep himself in tip-tip shape, but there's some scratches he just can't buff out, and– unless he were to get totally new parts– it felt painfully obvious to him just how old and clunky his hardware was. Compared to all those Cybercity folk Spamton's used to, Tenna must be a mess. He must be wondering how he's still running.
“Don't look so nervous, Ant, I promise I won't break anything.”
He coughs, trying to stop his face from getting any redder than it already was. That name always gets him.
“Just… be gentle, please?” Spamton raises an eyebrow at him, “I mean- just- be careful!”
“Yeah, yeah, now [remain seated] and [keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle].”
There's a click and then his chest panel pops open, all his inner workings on full display. Hot air floods out with the reveal and Tenna cringes. He didn't realise he was overheating.
“Woah! It's pretty [hot! hot! hot!] in here!”
“Sorry! It's probably from the drinking…”
Spamton wrenches the panel open a bit more, letting more hot air gush out and leaning in to get a better look, his other hand supporting himself against the top of Tenna's stomach. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.
“Try not to burn your-”
Before he can finish his sentence, Spamton is blowing cold air into his chest. Tenna yelps.
“Sorry, did I spook you?”
He's chuckling at him, but Tenna can still feel the sensation expanding in his chest, tingling, sending a shiver through him. It felt weird.
“Why would you-?? it's going to smell like tobacco in there now!!”
“Like it doesn't already. You know how many times you stole my cigar today? This stuff is expensive, you know!”
“That's-! Still-!!”
“Chill out,” Spamton pulls himself closer to his face, then, very purposefully, takes a puff of his cigar, “[Chillll outtttt mannnn].”
The smoke curls into his vents immediately and he makes a show of coughing and spluttering through it, fanning at his face, “Would you STOP doing that?!”
Spamton just laughs harder, puffing more smoke at him, “Sorry [Cathode], you're just too fun to mess with.”
“I'm really starting to regret this…”
“Hey, hey! Don't get cold feet on me now! At least let me see what you’re packing…” he hums, falling back onto his lap and surveying the project in front of him.
The way Spamton regards the mess of wires in his chest is… almost admiring. He's careful, diligent, as he inspects everything, trying to get a good understanding of the TV's workings before getting his hands dirty. Whatever previous annoyance Tenna was feeling falls away from him, overrode by the sheer flustered embarrassment of being so thoroughly seen.
“There should be a loose wire somewhere- just- just put it back in and I'll be right as rain!”
“Okay…. let's see what we're working with here…”
Finally, his hand breaches into Tenna's body, gabbing the closest wires, and Tenna flinches.
Okay, that's- that's REALLY weird. It's not an unfamiliar sensation, not really, he's been to his fair share of mechanics, but they'd be wearing gloves or using tools, and they wouldn't be grinning up at him, sitting on his lap, bare-handed and elbow deep in his chest, fingers slightly sticky with spilt whiskey. They wouldn't be Spamton. They wouldn't sound like him, look like him, it wouldn't be his hands dancing over his wires, touching parts of him that have never been touched so directly. He could feel his current fizzle into his skin.
Fingers dig into the couch fabric and he realises with an encroaching horror the whine building up at the back of his throat.
Oh god.
“Found it yet?” he tries to shift his focus, breathing deep.
“Yeah, yeah, one second..”
He's shoulder-deep now and Tenna has to stop looking, instead memorising cracks in the ceiling, feeling all too viscerally the push and pull going on inside him, the buzz of energy that trails in the man’s wake
What is happening?? This isn't normal. This isn't like him. He's not some sort of- of FREAK that gets off on having someone root around his insides, every other time he's done this he's honestly disliked the experience, it's uncomfortable, sometimes even painful, he's never gotten- he's not even supposed to be capable of something like that! He's family-friendly! Made for kids! Squeaky clean-!
“FOUND IT!”
Suddenly, with absolutely none of the care and gentleness he promised, Spamton grabs at a wire from the far-end of Tenna's chest, and pulls.
“You little [Son of a gun!!], thought you’d get away, did you??”
He's cackling with the pride of a man who’s just tackled a lion, dragging the culprit out into the open, or as far out into the open as he can before it goes taut, tangled up in a bundle of unseen wires. He yanks again, carelessly, before letting out a grumbly sigh.
“You think you can mess with Spamton G Spamton?? Well you're got another thing [coming!].”
There must be a god, and that god must like Tenna a lot, because, somehow, despite all reasonable odds, Spamton did not hear the sound he just made, and, as he's– at this point– leaning completely into his chest, he doesn't see the face he's making either. It gives him just a moment of relief before he notices just how much he is overheating. He’s not going to go unnoticed for much longer.
“Spamton-” his voice cracks, an edge of lewdness to his tone he's never heard on himself before, “Wait a sec-”
“Hold still, [Gogglebox], can't you see I'm in the middle of something here??”
As if to tell him off, he yanks at the bundle of wires he's unravelling, sending a cobweb of sparks all across his circuits. All Tenna can think to do is cover his mouth with his hand.
“You should get a fan in here, you know, you’re overheating like [top 10 craziest stunts],” he yanks again, trying to get some give.
When he doesn't get a response, he pulls his head out to look at Tenna, finding the TV burying his screen into his hands, shaking ever so slightly.
“You alright up there, Ant? Did I pull something I shouldn’t have?”
He's not even sure what to say– barely knows what's happening to him– so he just laughs, way too desperate and way too loud, “I'm fine! Just peachy! Em- Just a little- drunker than I thought-”
“Want a break?” he lets go of the wires and Tenna almost sobs.
The obvious answer is, ‘YES. YES. NOW. PLEASE.’, but it doesn't leave him. Instead, he just bites his lip, looks at Spamton through the gaps in his fingers.
“No, it's okay. Keep going.”
His system is overheating.
Spamton raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue, taking one last puff of his cigar before snuffing it out on the ashtray behind him. With both hands free, he dives back in to deal with the mess.
He takes his time with it, whistling as he works, never once paying mind to the shuddering coming from the man above him. The twists and pulls start to fall into a rhythm and Tenna does his best to settle into it, keep his breathing steady, sounds choked down. Every so often Spamton would get frustrated, rougher, and Tenna would have to bite down on his finger.
Eventually, Spamton manages to sort everything out, finally dragging the offending wire out into the open.
“There you go,” he rotates it between thumb and pointer finger, Tenna feels it all, “You've got to be more careful, Ant! I keep telling you a TV your age shouldn't be doing [[backflips compliation (gone wrong)]].”
He whines, maybe not in the way he intended to, “But the audience loves my backflips.”
“Then I guess you're going to have to [get used to it]. Honestly, you're acting like you've never been to the mechanic's.”
“It's just the whiskey,” he breathes out quietly, a little too fixated on the finger slipping over his conductor.
“Yeah, yeah, sure it is, you big [baby], need me to kiss it better?”
His screen glows a very obvious red, leaking out through the slits of his fingers as he watches him tilt the wire towards his mouth, tempting the idea. Fortunately– or unfortunately– he doesn't give him enough time to answer, quickly getting back to business.
“Am I right in saying this goes here?”
He punctuates his sentence with a tap to an empty port. He’s so much smaller than him he could easily stick his fingers inside.
“Y-yep-! You got it! Hole in One!”
“Right, hold still, this won't hurt a bit.”
It's clicked in with such a steady hand it's almost dull compared to the previous rough wire-yanking, but it leaves him keening nonetheless. The sudden rush of current causes his whole body to jolt, his hips bucking up so minutely he almost didn't even notice himself doing it.
“There we go, just like new!”
At that, the panel is thrown closed, banging so loudly it almost snaps him out of it, hands finally moving away from his face.
“That's it? We're done?”
“All done! Told you I know my stuff!”
Tenna just stares, feeling his insides buzz, phantom touches lighting up his circuits. He feels so so far from done, but Spamton was already moving away, dusting his hands off on his trousers and shooting him that award-winning smile. He wants to grab him and keep him there, beg him to keep going, finish him off.
“Thanks, I feel… a lot better.”
He feels vehemently disgusting.
“You know me, always happy to help a friend in need!”
It’s like nothing happened, because nothing did, not to Spamton. He settles easily back into his seat, pouring himself another drink and offering Tenna one too, complaining about his wasted cigar. Tenna keeps quiet all the while, looking anywhere but him.
He needs to get out of here.
“You know, I just remembered, I’ve got a meeting with Mike tomorrow morning, I should probably- well- I need to head to bed soon!”
Spamton pauses, the look he throws at Tenna making him want to curl up and die.
“Seriously?” he sits up, eyebrows knitted together, “Here I was, going out of my way to [help] you and you’re just gonna [up and at em]?? You haven’t even finished your drink!!”
“Sorry, Spamton, but you know how it is! No business like show business!”
Tenna tries, but the mood doesn’t lighten. He just keeps glaring, looking utterly betrayed, before eventually falling back onto the armrest, moving his glare to his drink.
“Yeah, sure, whatever. See you tomorrow, Tenna.”
It’s a horrible way to leave things, Tenna knows, but his selfishness gets the better of him, moving to throw on his blazer and tie, glancing warily at the guy as he does. He doesn’t move from his seat, taking long heavy sips from his glass.
“Thanks again for the drinks, Spammy.”
The affectionate name mingles horribly with the tension, it doesn’t help at all, so he just hangs his head and leaves, feeling the lack of response like a bullet to the chest.
He can still feel his touch tingling his insides as he collapses in the hallway, cursing himself.
What is wrong with him? What the hell was that?? It was just a maintence check, why was he-? why did it-??
He couldn't think about it— he shouldn’t think about it— forcing himself back on his feet and rushing home.
It's fine. Everything's fine. Hucky-doody. Just. Peachy. It's fine.