#winter writes

26, just out of hospital and physical rehab after his had lost his arm that's now a shiny black and gold piece of metal. He tried to learn piano during that time, training fingers that are not his, and came to the result that he sucks at playing but had good sense of hearing

The old man who owned the piano tuning workshop in Paris welcomed Gustave with open arms, hoping for a successor when he realized just how much potential the former engineer had.

One of the first clients he was introduced to were the Dessendres. And there, Gustave would meet his demise.

Young, a bright smile and so talented at the piano that Gustave's fingers felt like clumsy sausages in comparison. Just sixteen, in love with music and especially in love with the pianos in his parents home, who all took good care of the instruments.

Blue gray eyes full of hope for a wonderful life that would watch him curiously when he was tuning the grand piano in the main hall. Sometimes sat down next to Gustave on the piano bench to show of what he has learned.

Young, bright smile, talented and coming closer and closer. The first hairs of his beard were still patchy, his voice already deep after the vocal change in his earlier teenage years. A teenager with the most handsome face.

Gustave hated it. Every time he sat close to Verso who played the piano like a young god. Every time he caught him in one of the ateliers with the big windows smoking. Every time they were in his childhood room to tune the other piano, trains and toys scattered around. Every time he nudged his father's whiskey bottle closer to Gustave in a silent offer that he never took.

The moment his apprenticeship was over, Gustave left, even if it broke his mentor's heart. Moved to Montpellier to stay at a different workshop for a while. Then to Bordeaux, as far away as possible. Until Verso Dessendre was a memory he could lock away.

Now, he stands at the door of the address Verso had given him, his fingers trembling as he pushes the door bell button. The sound startles him. And Verso opens the door quickly.

Gustave is at loss for words, not even a professional 'hello' comes over his lips. Verso Dessendre has aged, of course he has in the last ten years. The patchy beard has fully grown, there are scars that absolutely hadn't been there before. A young man, not a teenager.

And Gustave falls right away again, like those feelings were never gone.

"Come in, I'll show you the piano." Verso smiles at him and opens the door a bit more. Gustave steps in, automatically, his eyes focused on Verso's back, broader too. Adult. Still beautiful.

"I'm sorry to hear about your mentor's, Monsieur Pomeau's, death, my condolences. I had found his number in the phone book and... tried my luck."

"He passed away peacefully. I'm sorry, Monsieur Dessendre, he can't be here to take care of..."

"Monsieur Dessendre makes it sound like I'm my Papa. Just Verso, Gustave. Just like back then, if you're fine with that."

Gustave's heart will surely jump out of his throat any moment.

The piano is old and badly taken care of, the imprints of beer glasses and cigarette burns covering the wooden top and lid. Verso tells him that he bought it from a closing bar somewhere in Paris, when he moved out from his parent's home rather rashly.

This is something completely different than the ones that have been in the Dessendre manor. But also, looking at Verso now, black shirt and lumberjack shirt above, washed out jeans. Yes, this is way more fitting to the man who's sitting in front of him. Not the boy whose wardrobe was filled with clothes his parents chose for him. More fitting for his job as piano teacher than the child prodigy.

Gustave starts taking the piano apart and plays a few notes. It's awfully of, he guesses that it hasn't been tuned in years but who would if the piano was in a loud bar anyway?

"You left Paris, your Mentor had said.", Verso says after a while, through the sounds of the piano, Gustave hears hurt in his voice. It stings like needles. Gustave doesn't look up, trying to figure out what can still be tuned and what his broken and needs to be repaired.

"Yes, I needed a change of scenery." It's not a lie. Sitting at the piano, it comes easily over his lips, like every conversation he had with Verso in the past.

"I see. Did it help?"

Gustave shrugs his shoulders, glancing up to Verso who's standing next to him with crossed arms. "To be honest, no, I don't think so. I have come back in the end, haven't I?"

Verso hums and becomes quiet again as Gustave checks the mechanical parts on the inside.

"Can you repair it?", Verso asks when the piano tuner lets out a sigh, dropping his hands to his thighs.

"Yes. It will take some time, I think I need to file down a bunch of hammers and exchange some strings. I warn you, it will be expensive..."

"Doesn't matter."

Suddenly, Gustave feels a hand on his right shoulder, just a gentle touch. This is closer than they've ever physically been. Despite all the stares and all the figurative nudges, they never touched.

Gustave considers for a second to get up. The image of the teenager jumps back in his mind, the wide grin, the carefree nature. No, the man behind him is an adult, he reminds himself. A second hand comes down on his other shoulder, Gustave thinks he can even feel the warmth of Verso's body faintly against his back.

"I think my heart broke when I thought I'd never see you again."

Gustave reaches up, covering his slender fingers with his before Verso wraps both arms around his shoulders, burying his head his shoulder.

"Can you repair it, too?", Verso adds with a quiet voice.

Gustave closes his eyes, letting some of his weight fall against the man behind him. There are butterflies in in his stomach that are quickly burned away by heat that coils in his lower body when Verso's warm breath fans over his neck.

The new criminals in town are on the down low killing off the minor gangs or pulling everyone on the wrong side of the law under their evil empire.

The Bats are all hands on deck to find every lead they can on the baddies taking over their city. Any criminal they catch won’t say a word, even to the Bat himself. No amount of threatening, dangling off rooftops, knuckle-cracking beat-downs will make anyone talk. Oracle even put word around town that the Batman is willing to put in a good word with the GCPD for anyone that would roll over on the new crime syndicate in town.

Matches met with some contacts in the local Goonion, tried to get some in with the new heat in town. All they have is whispers, nothing solid to give them a lead.

The body count keeps going up, and the Bats are all sleep-deprived, stressed, and snappish.

Alfred is the one to finally put his foot down. He sends Master Bruce out of town to check on Batman Incorporated, Master Damian out to hunt down his Nobody friend, Mistress Cassandra back to Hong Kong, Master Luke to hunt down some former thugs that had long moved on to Capitol City, Mistress Stephanie to work with Mistress Barbara to shift through digital evidence, and Master Jason off to look for his team to work a case out of town.

With only Master Dick and Master Tim, the household winds down, and he sends the two of them off to patrol the city. They may run down the sparse leads, but a slight respite from this case may prove to be what everyone in the family may need.

But when the night takes a turn, Nightwing and Red Robin find themselves running after someone in a creepy looking owl mask.

The absolute maze they’ve stumbled into does not at all bode well for an easy night in Gotham.

Time passes and the water from the fountain looks enticing for some reason.

N snags Red’s arm tightly, pulling him away from almost sticking a hand into the strange-looking water. “Don’t,” N warns in a growl, pulling the tiring Red Robin around by the wrist.

More than once, they’ve caught sight of more masks in the peripheral.

“We’re being drugged somehow,” Red Robin stands with his back to N’s, woozy and starting to recognize why it’s harder to think, hard to figure a way out. It’s too late but he slaps the rebreather over his nose and mouth. “Put yours on! There might be something in the air.”

N’s back is tense against his, face turned, not following the order. “Don’t worry, Red. We’re getting out of here.”

“You finally lured one of them here. Excellent work!”

The creeps in the masks line a hidden balcony above them in some weird ta-da, bad guys! moment. The next step is usually the monologue that ironically gives them plenty of time to make a plan.

Welp, sometimes it doesn’t pay to be wrong.

“That will be enough of this run-around,” the center mask squawks, “it’s time to reveal our little secret weapon.” 

The lean-in doesn’t bode well, and Red taps a finger on N’s gauntlet.

“Time to do your duty, Talon.”

Red looks for whoever this ass hat is talking about, expecting the next big bad to come out from the shadows.

“You said not him,” Nightwing calls out. “You said he would be safe.”

“What?” Red spins, a hand over his face when he realizes whatever is in the air is hitting him harder, even with the rebreather. “Big Wing?”

“Oh, come now,” lead mask guy waves a hand, “none of them can go free, now can they?”

“You said,” Nightwing growls again.

“Well,” another mask leans over the balcony, “we lied. Do what you were made to do, Talon! Kill him, right here, right now.”

“Talon?” Red Robin takes a shaky step away from Nightwing’s tense shoulder, brain slowly putting together what the hell he heard.

But something, something shifts and Red Robin fumbles at his utility belt for some kind of antidote along with the portable bo that would probably be welcome right about now.

But even as he’s reaching, flipping the staff out to full-length, Nightwing, the vigilante he’s fought beside, bled beside, cried on, carried home, been carried by, seen the worst atrocities imaginable with, his mentor and friend and even his former Batman, someone he thought he knew better than he knew himself —

— makes an inhuman noise and lunges into the air.

Red Robin yells as the screams start and N is tearing through the masks, more feral than Red has ever seen him before. It’s terrifying enough to take the strength from his knees and he’s sinking down onto the tile floor of the maze, dizzy as blood arcs into the shadows and the screams gradually die down.

Through hazy vision on the verge of unconsciousness, he sees N land it back down, dripping black blood. In both hands, wickedly curved blades instead of his usual escrima sticks, face painted sickeningly with death.

The whiteouts on the domino are up and Dick’s eyes are black, not-not blue.

(Anymore.)

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Timmy,” is gentle with each step closer he takes, and the terror at those footsteps, blood on those familiar boots, slides down Tim’s spine, and he can’t even move to try and get away.

“No…Not-not you. Dick…not you.”

“Yeah, it was me all along, Timmy.” And he’s crouching down so he can flip the whiteouts up on Tim’s mask, can bend down so he’s looking directly in Tim’s fading gaze. “I hated it. Everything they did, everything they made me do. I hated all of it…but, they said you would be safe if I followed orders.”

There’s blood on the fingerstripes. The knives slide in hidden side panels of the Nightwing suit, places Tim’s never seen or noticed before.

“You’ve always been mine, Timmy. They promised I could have you when it was all over and Gotham was back under their control.” And the edge to Dick’s tone, the residual anger in the back of his mouth, ready to spill out. “I only had to kill the others, but you? I would get to keep you. Just like we’ve always been. You never would have known differently if they had just kept their promise.”

“Dick…don’t hurt…please, don’t hurt…”

But gravity is tossed around and Dick lifts him effortlessly, suit and all. “Ssshhh, ssshhh, it’s okay. It’s okay now. We’re leaving.” 

Being held up like this, being carried away from this insane maze, from this night straight out of his nightmares, being helpless to get away, to fight back, and Red Robin can’t even look away from those black, black eyes.

“I’m going to take you somewhere safe, somewhere we can be together, okay? I’ll make sure you’re safe, and then I’m going to go for the rest of them. It won’t be hard, Timmy, I promise. They’ll pay for trying to hurt you. I might have to make sure the others don’t interfere, but as long as we’re together, none of them matter, okay?”

And in a terrifying turn of events, Dick’s grip shifts, bringing him closer, bringing them face-to-face. “I’ve always wanted to be with you. Not like this, but, in the end, beggars can’t be choosers. And I know I can make you happy, right? Without the others, you won’t have to be Red Robin and I won’t have to be Nightwing. We can’t just be us. Won’t that be nice?”

And Tim doesn’t hear anything else Dick might say, passing out cold in the Talon’s embrace. He doesn’t hear the shot of the grapple, or know he’s going to wake up tied to a bed in an unfamiliar apartment, with Dick Grayson, former Robin, former Nightwing, cleaned of blood and waiting —

As usual, the TV studio was bustling with activity by the time Tenna arrived backstage. The place had been livelier than ever the whole week, what with the schedule for TV Time filling up their calendar, and at Tenna’s direction, his crewmembers were keeping busy with the ever-changing lighting and the increasingly eccentric stage props. Now that the show was really taking off, both he and his co-star Spamton had hardly gotten a break from the hectic life of showbusiness.

But as much of a dream come true as it was, he was also completely exhausted.

Tenna hadn’t been feeling his best right from the get-go when he’d woken up this morning with a scratchy throat and a persistent sniffle. In hindsight, it probably should’ve been obvious: having a one-on-one interview segment for the show with an interviewee who was blatantly sick with a streaming cold was, perhaps, not the smartest of moves. But the Addison CEO he’d invited on was a big household name, and with the rate that they were upsizing, they simply couldn’t afford to reject the views it would bring in, so Tenna had endured exposing himself to the cold-ridden air between them for an hour straight.

He’d hoped to avoid ending up the same as him later in the week, and for a little while, it had seemed like he’d succeeded. In the time since the show finished on Monday, Tenna had taken every opportunity he could to rest as much as his busy schedule would allow, though of course, it still left much to be desired.

For the first few days, he’d felt perfectly peachy as his efforts seemed to pay off. That is, until this Thursday morning had finally come along, bringing with it a slight tickle behind his screen that signaled the first of what would inevitably become the early stages of his cold.

It wasn’t that bad, though. He’d suffered through so, so much worse over the years, and if there was anything he’d learned from them, it was that the show must alwaysgo on! 

Speaking of, Spamton was approaching him now, holding various looseleaf scripts in one hand.

“Ah, there you are, Tens! You ready for the show or what?”

Instinctively, Tenna perked up at the mention of his professional obligations. He had to keep his posture looking good for the cameras, after all! “’Course I am!”

Spamton nodded. “Great, because I’ve finally got everything sorted with the sponsors. I’m gonna keep it real with you, Cathode—you are so lucky you don’t have to deal with these guys nearly as much now that you have me.”

Tenna chuckled at that. “It is nice to outsource the words from our sponsors!” He paused to clear his throat then after his voice came out a bit rougher than he’d intended.

Spamton raised a brow. “You good? Need to do some vocal warm-ups first?”

“Ah—no, I’m alright. Throat’s just a little dry from giving stage directions all morning. You know how it is,” he said with a shrug and a definitely-not-forced grin.

“Mm-hmm. Speaking of dry, have you read these trivia questions?” Spamton smacked his stack of papers with the back of his other hand. “Here, get this: they’re claiming that the 1993 Cungadero is more powerful than the 1987 model.” He scoffed incredulously. “Seriously, who wrotethese?! Everyone knows the newer one gets less horsepower than the ’87!”

“Oh, yeah, everyone,” Tenna said, having no idea what Spamton was talking about. Today’s trivia show had been written by their sponsor tie-in, a car manufacturing group of some kind from the city. Spamton knew how to be appeasing when it came to working with them, but given his… particular interests, he was perhaps just a little more confrontative this time around.

Suddenly, his antennas pinged with an incoming message. Reaching up to the side of his head with a jolt, he heard Mike’s voice speaking to him through their channel:

“Hey, Tenna, we’re all set over here. Ready to go?”

“Yep, all good! You can go ahead and get everything started. Thanks, Mike!”

“Got it. You’re both on in five.”

Clearing his throat again, he glanced down at Spamton. “Shall we?”

--

Normally, Tenna felt perfectly at home basking in the glow of the stage lights, their bold intensity complimenting his pale complexion and vividly red-and-yellow outfit. But for whatever reason, the moment he stepped into their harsh rays, he could only feel a sense of discomfort. They were much too warm and bright, so much so that he visibly flinched as soon as they’d washed over his screen.

Ah, well—he’d have to remind Mike to check for any calibration or wiring issues later. For now, he had an introduction to get through. With Spamton by his side, Tenna took a deep breath, held up his mic, and let the opening lines flow through him.

“Gooood evening, ladies and gentlemen! As always, I’ll be your lovely host for tonight, and joining me as our wonderful cohost is the just-as-lovely Spamton G. Spamton!”

“Please, Ant, you’re too kind,” Spamton spoke into his own smaller copy of the standard TV Time microphone, an edge of exasperation to his voice given Tenna’s tendency to overdo it with the praise.

Nevertheless, Tenna continued with enthusiasm. “We’ve got a great show lined up for you this time, wihithh… a-hem, with tonight’s special guests!”

Out of nowhere, an utterly irresistible tickle had settled itself deep inside his nose, drawing out a breathy hitch midsentence that he couldn’t have stopped if he’d tried. No problem—he’d take care of it in between lines. A slight pause, and he reached up to scrub at his nose as subtly as possible, taking no more than a second before lowering his hand again.

…Apparently, that was a huge mistake.

The very moment his glove had brushed up against his screen and under his already sensitive nares, he could feel the prickle of static electricity spread into the fabric, elevating the offending itch into the beginnings of a storm.

“In just a-huhh… snff, a few moments, we’ll be introducing our c-contesthhants… hihh—ih’TSSHuhh!”

In a mad panic, he scrambled for the handkerchief folded securely in his front suit pocket, managing to retrieve it and turn away from the cameras just in time to muffle the sneeze that escaped him. He breathed a half-sigh of relief; guess that was taken care of.

Only now that the white, silky fabric of the handkerchief, one corner embroidered with “T.V. Time” in bright red thread, was right up against his screen, he was finding that even the slightest of movements was sending that same fuzzy feeling of static cling across his face, tickling the inside of his nose all over again.

Focus, you’ve got an intro to get through!

Unfortunately, it seemed like his nose had other plans. He didn’t even manage to get through his next breath before the fit took over him entirely.

“…ng’GNXSHHh!! Hh’TZSHHht…! Huhh—ihgGXZSSHTuhh!!”

Each and every one was just as unsatisfying as the last, stifled harshly into the cloth and exacerbating the itch as the storm only seemed to grow. Sparks flashed from the tips of his antennas, sending an additional shudder through his body with each sneeze and making his microphone crackle slightly, prompting a startled look from Spamton beside him.

He didn’t speak aloud, but a pointed glare and rise of his brow sent him a clear message: What the hell is going on?

Tenna made an attempt to pull the fabric away, but it was immediately apparent that that wasn’t a good idea. Already, his nose was streaming like a faucet—he couldn’t move it yet, but leaving it meant that the staticky prickle wouldn’t go away, either.

His gaze darted nervously towards the cameras, the stare of the lenses piercing him. Shit—he had to think of something, quick.

“Ahh… a-actually, folks,” he began, still desperately holding the handkerchief up to his screen, “before we introduce our lovely contestants, we have a quick w-word from—hh—haH’TSCHHHh…! Hahh—from our s-sponsors!” Before the next tickle could bloom, he added under his breath, “Mike, run the ads, please!”

Spamton shot him another questioning look. Since when did they start a show with ads?

Tenna could only spare him a brief glance as he backed away, flashing the “technical difficulties” screen as he turned to rush backstage, hoping he’d get the message. It wasn’t a moment too soon, either, as his next breath demanded more from him, snapping his head forward with the force of each sneeze. “…ih’GTSCHHh—! Hhh—A’KTSCHHEW!!”

With that last one, he paused to blow, doing his best to muffle the sound of it away from the audio equipment. By now, the cloth in his hand was rather soaked, much to his disdain. But by some miracle, the loss of static charge took at least some of the irritation with it, giving him a chance to breathe at last. Gingerly, he dabbed at his screen, and only a minute or so later, Tenna snapped to attention when he noticed Spamton approaching him, pushing his way through the curtains to join him in the back.

“Alright, what’s with the sparks, Tenn? You dyin’ or something?”

“Ughh… I think I have a cold,” Tenna groaned, wincing slightly now that the fit had torn up his raw throat. “I get all this static buildup and I cahahhn’t… s-stop… ngh’GXSSHHhuhh…!” Another spark coiled its way up his antennas as he whipped his head to the side to catch the next one in the crook of his arm, ending it with a pitifully thick sniffle. “…Sneezing,” he finished.

“Really, now? I hadn’t noticed,” Spamton teased. 

“Mnnh… it just keeps coming,” Tenna complained. “Usually the excess static isn’t this bad unless I have a fever, though…”

At that, Spamton narrowed his eyes. “It’s not, is it?”

He approached then, reaching up towards Tenna’s casing as best he could. But before he could make contact, Tenna flinched away, just barely feeling the staticky prickle react to Spamton’s feathery hand and making the soft material stand on end.

“Don’t…!” He warned, coughing twice with the strain of raising his voice. “Don’t get too close, it’s not safe!”

Spamton couldn’t help staring at his hand in fascination. “Whoa… so whatever you touch gets a nice static charge, huh? No wonder you keep getting set off; you were practically burrowing your face in conductive fabric the whole time up there.”

“I guess so,” Tenna said, absentmindedly rubbing a hand under his nose and very promptly being reminded why that was a poor choice. “Hheh—heH'TSSHhuhh…!”

“Case in point,” Spamton said, crossing his arms. He paused then, noting the discomfort in Tenna’s expression. “Maybe just skip the covering for a bit, alright, Cathode? Wouldn’t want you to short-circuit in the middle of things.”

His antennas drooped considerably. “I’ll get everyone sick if I don’t,” he said, dejection creeping into his tone.

Spamton sighed, raising a hand to rub at his temple briefly. “Then go home and rest, idiot. Unless you wanna be completely miserable on set for the next few hours, then go ahead—be my guest.”

“But… you’ll be hosting the show alone,” Tenna argued. “I can’t just drop this on you right when we’re supposed to be starting…”

“Aw, c’mon Cathode, I thought you’d give me a little more credit than that,” he said, the corner of his mouth stretching into an amused smile. “I think I can handle a basic trivia show where the questions were all prewritten for us.”

Oh. He had a point there, Tenna supposed. But still, there was a glimmer of worry gnawing at his gut. He knew Spamton could do a perfectly fine job on his own—he was damn good at this, really—but Tenna was normally present onstage to act as a counterbalance, and he’d already declared his disdain for today’s sponsor. What if it was a disaster in waiting?

“I know, but are you sure? It’s—snff—not that bad, I’ve worked through stuff like this before,” he tried.

Spamton didn’t buy it. “Yeah, I’m sure.” When Tenna failed to stop a look of disappointment from taking over his screen, his own expression softened. “Here, how about this—if you’ve got a temperature, I’m getting Mike to ban you from the set. If not, you can keep working. Deal?”

Tenna perked up a little. He didn’t feel particularly warm, and the lightheadedness was probably because he hadn’t quite caught his breath yet. He was fine to keep going, and this would prove it. “Alright, deal.”

Nodding, Spamton glanced around briefly, flagging down a nearby Pippins working backstage. “You—get us a thermometer. A glass one, not one of the digital ones with the metal tip, got it?”

With a much too perceptible eyeroll, the Pippins nodded in acknowledgement and set off, returning only a few minutes later after pillaging what was likely a very outdated and not-up-to-code medical supply closet. But it would have to do for now.

Tenna watched as Spamton took the device from them before offering it to him. “Go on, let’s see.”

Hesitantly, Tenna accepted and slipped it under his tongue, grimacing at the stale taste of it. Spamton, meanwhile, looked satisfied with himself.

“Figured the metal one would get zapped. This should work instead.”

“Mmhmm…”

An awkward pause, and eventually, the red-dyed liquid in the thermometer came to a halt. Tenna removed it with impatient flick of his tail, but as soon as he did so, Spamton snatched it from him.

“100.7, huh? Looks like a fever to me,” he chided.

His antennas drooped in disappointment. “It could be worse,” he protested. “I-I can stihhill—hahh’ESHHEWw!! Hhh’ESHCHIEWW! …Nngh,” he moaned as another harsh tickle caught him off guard. At the same time, more electricity sparked from him greedily, threatening to jump towards the nearest piece of equipment, had Tenna not angled his head away in time.

…Maybe it was a good idea to turn in, after all. His shoulders sank; he was more of a liability than anything like this, wasn’t he? A walking electrical hazard. Besides, he’d already managed to embarrass himself once with a fit in front of the live cameras. He wasn’t eager to do so again.

Spamton shot him a sympathetic look, placing the thermometer on the table nearest to them. “You were saying, Tens?”

“Fine,” Tenna conceded with a dramatic sigh. “Tell Mike I’m calling out sick, then. You can take over. And please,” he added, “whatever you do, do not get us sued for libel, okay?”

“…Ehh, no promises.”

“Spamton.”

“Alright, alright, I won’t,” he said, only half-jokingly. “Seriously, don’t worry about it, Cathode. Go get some rest—I’ll see you after the show.”

With a tiny nod, Tenna watched as Spamton headed back through the curtains now that Mike had likely run out of extra in-case-of-emergency advertisements to shove in front of their audience. For now, it seemed there was nothing more for him to do other than head back to his room.

It wasn’t too far from the showroom, but Tenna struggled to keep his tail from dragging along the floor along the way. Despite having subsided a little, the itch deep in his screen was still lurking, occasionally causing it to flicker with glitchy static interference. At least he didn’t have to worry about the cameras picking it up anymore.

Upon arriving, Tenna wasted no time powering on the main TV screen mounted on the wall, already tuned in to the broadcast from the showroom. If he couldn’t join him, then watching Spamton perform from here was the next best thing.

He’s doing great! Why was I even worried?

As the next hour ticked by, though, Tenna couldn’t stop the returning sense of doubt that crept up on him, helpless against the way the dense fog seemed to slowly wrap itself around his mind.

…Was he going to be upset with him for getting sick during the show? He’d have every right to; they’d had everything planned all week, and Tenna had suddenly changed that plan with less than a moment’s notice.

“…ngh’GNXSHHh! Snrrrk—ugh…”

The tissues by his bedside were equally prone to static cling, but with how delicate they were on top of how much more congested he felt compared to even just an hour ago, they weren’t setting him off quite as much. A thread of silver lining in a tapestry of misery, he supposed.

He twitched an antenna towards the screen across from him. The outro theme for the show was playing—was it over already? It was only meant to be an hour long with commercial breaks included, so it made sense. Still, he hadn’t quite realized it had been that long already.

Before the credits had even finished rolling, he jolted in surprise when a knock came from the door. Without needing an answer, Spamton pushed his way through, carrying what looked to be a mug of warm liquid, the translucent wisps of steam trailing softly above it as he approached.

“Hey, Cathode, how’re ya feeling?”

“Mm… tired,” he replied, lifting his gaze towards him.

Spamton nodded, apparently having expected that answer. “Here, I brought you this,” he said, offering him the mug with an arm outstretched. “It’s tea. Thought it might help.”

Tenna looked down at it questioningly, then back up at Spamton. “Oh… you’re ndot… mad at mbe?”

Spamton raised a brow. “What? No, why would I be mad at you? I told you, it’s not a big deal.”

“Mmm… still,” was all Tenna could manage for a reply. “You did ambazing out there without mbe.”

Tentatively, he took the drink into his hands then, melting into the warmth it provided through his gloves before taking a generous sip of it. Immediately, the feeling of it sliding down his throat was nothing short of wondrous, though the relief it brought was short lived, as he couldn’t help pausing to cough a few times after he’d placed it on the nightstand. 

“…Sorry,” he croaked.

Spamton watched him, an uncharacteristic layer of concern visible deep in his eyes. “You sound pretty stuffed up. Not as feisty as you were before, either; you sure you’re feeling okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, he reached out again, only for Tenna to flinch away like a kicked dog just as he had the first time. “Don’t… I told you, it’s ndot safe…”

Spamton looked crestfallen, pulling his arm back in a slow, steady motion. “Tenn… do you really go without any physical contact when you’re sick normally?”

Tenna gave him a piteous nod, much to his partner’s dismay given that he was staring at him like he’d just told him he has six months to live. “’S’okay, I’mb used to it,” he said with a light sniffle. “It’s ndot so bad, ‘cept when all the extra static makes my antennas feel really sore after a while…”

Spamton’s gaze drifted towards them, still bent slightly out of shape now that Tenna didn’t have the energy to keep them properly upright. “…Do they hurt right now?”

Tenna hesitated. Right now, everything felt sore and achy, and the more he focused on it, the more he could feel another tickle building inside his nose. “…A little,” he admitted. “I—h-hihh… hiht’TSHHEWW! Ow… Snnfff…”

He hadn’t bothered trying to stifle that one, wincing at the way it scraped against his throat and drew out a renewed, angry spark from his antennas. God, it was like this cold was designed to make him personally feel as wretched as possible. He’d have to talk to Mike about setting up a strict “NO SICK GUESTS” policy from now on.

Beside him, Spamton sighed. “Hold on, I think I left the thermometer backstage. I’ll be right back.”

As before, it didn’t take him long to return, though Tenna had taken to settling a little deeper into his bed in the meantime, drawn to the way it pulled him in as he shivered slightly underneath the covers. The night was still young, but already, he was exhausted, though he suspected that sleep wouldn’t be very restful anyway with the constant feeling of static brimming underneath the surface of his screen.

Once Spamton was in view again, he began returning to Tenna’s bedside with the thermometer in hand. However, he slowed until he came to a halt entirely, a thoughtful look crossing his expression.

“…Spam? Whadt is it?”

He shook his head briefly, then finished his approach. “Here, put this in your mouth. I have an idea—don’t go anywhere, okay?”

That would be a very difficult thing for him to do right now, but with a confused tilt of his head, Tenna humored him. “Um… okay.”

Half-bewildered, half-amused, he watched then as Spamton raced out of the room again, leaving him to wait a bit more patiently this time around. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be, after all.

--

Spamton walked as fast as he physically could without breaking into a full-blown sprint towards the studio’s Green Room. If this was going to work the way he hoped it would, then what he needed was most likely somewhere around here.

As usual, he spotted Ramb stationed at the bar, and upon seeing him enter, a mischievous grin spread across his face. “Fancy seeing you here at this hour, mate. What can I get ya?”

Spamton ignored him, heading straight for the electrical supplies closet adjacent to the bar and shoving his way past the door. “Not now, Ramb.”

“…Sure, help yourself, why don’t you,” he muttered behind him, though Spamton hardly heard it. He was on a mission.

…Except, the more he looked, practically ransacking every drawer and unlabeled box, the further he seemed from finding what he was after. Eventually, he was made aware of the fact that Ramb was standing in the doorway watching him when he rather loudly cleared his throat.

“Can I help you find anything, mate?” He asked, his tone dripping with annoyance.

At last, Spamton looked up at him. “Insulated gloves—where are they? I need to borrow some.”

Ramb raised a brow skeptically. “Depends, what do you need them for?”

Spamton sighed. Always a thing with this guy. “Tenna’s not feeling well. I thought they might let me help.”

To his surprise, however, Ramb’s expression softened at that. “Ah, I see. Now that’s awfully sweet of you, innit? You sure you’re feeling okay, mate?”

“…Shut up, Ramb,” Spamton growled. “Not a word of this to anyone, understood?”

Ramb chuckled. “Heh… don’t worry, my lips are sealed.” He raised a hand then, pointing at a box underneath one of the shelves that Spamton had somehow missed. “Should be in there. I’ll even let ya keep ‘em; needed to restock this place, anyway.”

At his word, Spamton scrambled to open it, relieved to find that they were there, even if the yellow with black cuffs wasn’t the most attractive color combination. Shoving them into his pocket without a second thought, he turned and exited the closet, already heading for the hallway. Behind him, Ramb called out once more, “Have fun!”

Spamton did his best to ignore him for a second time. He just needed to focus on getting back to Tenna.

Sure enough, he was right where he’d left him in his bed by the time Spamton returned, though he looked drowsy from the way he’d sunken into his pillow, thermometer poking listlessly from his mouth. But, as soon as Spamton approached, he seemed to perk up a little.

“Alright, let’s see,” he said as he took the thermometer back, though his heart dropped in his chest when he saw the reading. “101.8. Shit—your fever went way up.”

Tenna didn’t look nearly as alarmed, instead moving to sit up, only to find that it dizzied him. “Mmn… think I’ve got something here,” he muttered.

Spamton followed his gaze, pulling open the topmost drawer of his nightstand to find a half-empty bottle of fever reducers. Huh—how convenient. In a precise motion, he popped it open to retrieve two of the tablets, handing them and the still-warm mug of tea back to Tenna. “Should probably take these now, before we get started.”

“Hah… thanks,” Tenna replied, downing them quickly, much to Spamton’s relief. “…Wait, start whadt…?”

Spamton brandished the gloves from his pocket, slipping them on with shocking ease. “Mind if I try giving your antennas a massage?”

Tenna’s casing shifted into an expression of surprise, staring at his hands as if he couldn’t comprehend the idea. “Huh…? But… are you sure that’ll work…?”

That was what he’d said, but behind the uncertainty, Spamton could see that he so very, very desperately wanted it to. “Only one way to find out.”

Slowly, delicately, Spamton leaned forward, allowing his right hand to make the gentlest of contact with the side of Tenna’s head, just barely cupping it from underneath. Instinctively, Tenna flinched, an age-old fear resurfacing within him in an instant. But Spamton held fast, and once he saw that he wasn’t jerking his arm back in pain, Tenna gradually forced himself to relax.

And then, he leaned deep into his touch, a quiet sound akin to something like a whimper escaping him in response to the unfamiliar feeling. It almost hurt to see him like this, so desperate for the basic necessity of contact, especially with how sick and lonely he must be feeling. Even through the glove, Spamton could pick up on the heat radiating from him—physically separated by the barrier of the specialized material, but still undeniably intimate in nature.

That was all he could ever really ask for, it seemed.

“Looks like it’s working,” Spamton breathed.

“Y-yeah…” Tenna said, giving little more than a shaky nod.

At last, after what couldn’t have been more than half a minute but had felt like hours, Spamton pulled his hand away, though Tenna attempted to stay with his touch as long as possible.

“Right—can you lay on your stomach for me, Tenn? It’ll make it easier for me to reach things.”

“O-oh, sure,” Tenna replied eagerly. It took him a second to remove himself from underneath the covers, but once he’d rearranged himself, he was laying stomach-down on the bed, his head propped up by his arms crossed overtop a pillow.

Spamton hopped up onto the bed to join him, quickly settling down next to where his head was positioned. “Are you ready?”

Though his tail flicked nervously behind him, Tenna gave a single approving nod.

Stretching his arms out to crack his joints in preparation, Spamton leaned closer and, just as gently as before, took the ends of his antennas into his palms.

Immediately, Tenna’s body shuddered as his breath hitched once, then twice. Oh—oh god, he was about to cry, wasn’t he? Right away, Spamton let go.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“Snff… n-ndo, sorry, I just… can’t believe anyone would do this for me,” came Tenna’s wavering reply. “Everyone always avoids mbe when I’mb like this because they’re afraid of getting shocked…”

Spamton could feel his heart break into pieces. Oh, Cathode…

“Well, I’m not afraid of a little zap,” he declared. Then, with a wink, he added, “Heh… might even be kind of fun.”

Even from here, he could see the pixels of Tenna’s screen flash pink briefly, the color washing over the white pillowcase under him as he tucked his shoulders into himself. “Oh…! But, th-that won’t happen, right?”

“Nah.” Probably, anyway.

With that, Spamton resumed his prior intention, delicately grasping his partner’s antennas from the middle. Again, Tenna couldn’t help tensing up slightly at the sudden touch, but he otherwise remained still.

Spamton hesitated. He… didn’t actually know how to give the appendages a proper massage. They hadn’t had the chance for him to really learn yet. Ah, well—better to learn it on the job, I guess. How hard can it be?

Carefully, he started with a rhythmic, vertical rubbing motion, working his way ever so slowly up from the center feed point. As he did so, Spamton felt Tenna practically melt under his touch almost immediately, drawing out a deep sigh of relaxation.

But for as good as the stimulation must have felt, his body hadn’t forgotten about the excess electricity built up inside him. A few seconds in, and the sparks were visible again, coiling up his antennas like serpents on the hunt. But by some stroke of luck, Spamton couldn’t feel a thing—it seemed the gloves were more than sufficient to keep him safe from them.

Tenna, on the other hand, was definitely feeling it. His screen shuddered with static interference, and his next breaths hitched violently—not from the effort of holding back tears this time, Spamton suspected. His nose was twitching and flaring, undoubtedly battling the irritation that had returned with a vengeance.

“Hh… hahh—haH’ESCHIEWW!”

Tenna sniffled after the first one had successfully fought its way out, though it was already obvious how ineffective that was going to be. “Mmngh—Spam…? Tissues—”

“Whoops, just a sec, Cathode,” Spamton responded, briefly releasing his grip on his left antenna to reach over and grab the box of tissues off the nightstand.

The second they were within reach, Tenna grabbed one and let loose another set of three as the static transferred straight up against his nose, very quickly drenching the material and putting him out of breath. “Hht…! hih’TSSCHEWW!! hhEH’SSHHieww—! hHH’TSCHHuhh…! Hahh…”

“All good there, Tens?”

“Snnnff. Mhmm…”

Well, that was good enough for Spamton. Gently, he resumed his massaging motions, still focusing on the center poles. Tenna relaxed again, allowing him to work the soreness out of them with slow, deliberate pressure. At this point, Spamton could tell he wasn’t even trying to hold them up on his own anymore, too overcome by the feeling of relief washing over him.

As he moved up to begin working at the kinks in his antennas, a few more sparks of electricity arched angrily from them in response. With one hand pressing a barely intact tissue against his screen and the other desperately grasping at the bedsheets with his claws outstretched, Tenna was practically gasping for his next breath. “hHH—! heH’tSHHEWW—!”

Poor guy. On the one hand, the endless cycle of irritation from his own unique biology had to be a miserable existence. But, on the other, Spamton couldn’t help savoring the way Tenna was squirming underneath him, not to mention the way he could feel his breath hitch and his body shudder with release each and every time. In more ways than one, Tenna was at the mercy of Spamton’s delicate touch—something he was, perhaps, enjoying a little too much.

At last, he made his way up to the rounded tips of his antennas, taking them gently into his palms and changing to circular motions as though he were shining them. He still wasn’t sure whether this was what he was supposed to be doing, but it must have been good enough given that Tenna moaned softly beneath him whether he’d meant to or not. Spamton could feel his cheeks heat up in response—Tenna, the family-friendly face of TV Time, making that sort of sound behind closed doors?

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, and if Spamton got his way, it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Eventually, as he finished dispelling the tension from the whole length of them, the static seemed to recede from his antennas, only giving off the slightest of crackles every now and then in place of full-on sparks. Tenna let out a deep sigh of relief, melting into the mattress all over again.

“Mmn… th-thank you…”

Spamton released his grip once more, backing off to give him the room to sit back up. Gradually, Tenna managed to lean against the backboard, propping himself up with a pillow behind his back. He looked exhausted, both his nose and screen were flushed pink, and he could hardly even sniffle with how congested he was after all that, but aside from those details, Spamton could tell that he was glowing a little more vibrantly than before.

Hell, even like this, Spamton could hardly take his eyes off him.

“’Course, Tenn. Just focus on getting some rest for now, okay? You should feel better in the morning.” After he’d said it, though, Spamton couldn’t help the mischievous smile that crossed his expression. “But, on the off chance that you don’t… we can always go for round two.”

Tenna stiffened slightly, the pink pixels darkening by one shade. As much as this cold had knocked him down, it was evidently hard to hide the excitement that phrase had brought him.