#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 night descended over TV World at last, blanketing the studio in a new layer of atmospheric darkness, the cold, crisp air of the snowy hills beyond had fallen into stillness. The lights lining the path up to the studio entrance glistened delicately off the snow that had settled all around it, illuminating everything with their silvery shine. And yet, just past the grand doors standing tall at the end of the path, the studio interior was livelier than ever, bustling with the activities of the Darkners gathered there under the pulsing obsidian of the fountain overlooking it all.

In his private dressing room, Tenna was making the final adjustments to his appearance, taking his time with straightening his bowtie to perfection. Tonight was special: a gala to rival all others, hosted within the walls of his very studio. He’d spent the last month or so planning it meticulously, ensuring every detail was up to his standard. Of course, it had gone well enough the last few years since he’d first began hosting, but for whatever reason—perhaps it was the unstable ratings, or perhaps it was just his own subconscious need to one-up himself—this year’s event was one he felt needed to go particularly well.

Maybe that was why he’d woken up this morning with the dull edge of a headache gnawing at his antennas, or why even now his body ached slightly underneath the excitement. The malaise, despite its persistence, wasn’t enough to concern him, he decided. He’d gone through so much worse under just as much pressure, after all; it was likely little more than stress, which was fine by him. He didn’t have time to feel sick—not tonight.

As he gazed at himself in front of the mirror, everything seemed to be in order. Tonight called for the highest tier of formal wear, and so he’d abandoned his typical red blazer in favor of a classic black-and-white tuxedo accompanied by matching black dress shoes, the white bowtie, and his own golden “TV” pin to tie it all together. Satisfied, he flashed a smile, his own pale white glow complimenting the look rather nicely, and with that, he exited the room and stepped into the hallway.

Right away, he was greeted by his partner Spamton striding towards him, donned in a black tuxedo of his own to match Tenna’s.

“Heya, Cathode,” he said, “lookin’ pretty sharp, eh?”

Tenna paused for a moment, finding himself taken aback by just how good he looked. He’d always thought Spamton had pulled off the black-suited look spectacularly before, but this was… well, he was stunning, and it was more than enough to leave him speechless.

Instead, his smile stretched wide, and as soon as Spamton was in range, Tenna lunged forward to scoop him up excitedly into his arms, twirling as he held onto him tightly.

“Spammy, you look amazing!”

“Okay, okay, put me down!” He replied, less than impressed. “Seriously, watch the suit! You tryin’ to ruffle me already?”

“Oops, sorry!”

Tenna stopped, though he regretted the spinning motion as soon as he did so, the dizzy feeling persisting a little too long after. Even so, he managed to lean down and release Spamton, who squirmed away from his grasp.

“Relax, bigs,” he said, brushing off the front of his suit, “we can get plenty ruffled later, after the party.”

Tenna could practically feel the pixels of his screen turn pink for a second. “Ah—I’m just excited that you’re here with me! I’m usually a one-man show at these, you know?”

Spamton’s expression softened. “Heh, yeah… just try not to get your antennas in a twist, okay?” His smile turned wry then. “So, you gonna be a gracious host and show me to the main event or what?”

His antennas perked up slightly, and he gave a playful, dramatic bow. “Oh, but of course! Right this way—I have so much to show you!”

At his word, the two of them were headed for the showroom with Tenna in the lead. Much of the room had been cleared out to make space for the guests and the tables of various food and drink, though the area in front of the main stage remained packed with chairs. The moment they walked in, they were further greeted by the vibrant red carpeting that had been rolled out the previous night, accented by gold trimmings lining the edges. Even though he’d overseen most of the decisions regarding the décor, Tenna couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe and pride now that he was seeing it all come together in front of him.

Though it was still early, the room was already abundant with Darkners, each one appearing equally well-dressed and carrying themselves with an air of regality. Right away, Tenna recognized quite a few of them—however, he didn’t get the chance to say as much before he stopped in his tracks, overcome by a rather insistent shiver, prompting him to wrap his arms around his chest.

Huh… bit cold in here, isn’t it? Wonder if the crew accidentally left it set like this last night.

For a second, he glanced around to determine whether anything else seemed out of place. None of the others appeared bothered by it, casually walking around and chatting with one another like it was second nature, and beside him, Spamton looked just as enamored by the atmosphere, the golden lights from above shining in his eyes.

“Wow, Cathode,” he said, “you weren’t kidding about going all out with the whole ‘Hollywood’ look, were you?”

“’Course not,” Tenna responded. “Everything’s got to look perfect for the cameras!” Then, once he’d relaxed his arms back against his sides, he asked, “So… what do you think?”

“Eh, it’s a bit posh.” His still-wry smile supplemented his teasing tone. “Speaking of which…”

Tenna watched as he reached into his pocket, procuring a fancy-looking cigar, holding it up for a moment in admiration.

“See this? Highest-quality brand there is. Been saving it for a special occasion just like this.”

Tenna wasn’t as impressed. “Um, sure. You’re not actually going to smoke that in here, though, are you? I don’t want it seeping into the curtains—”

“What, are you crazy?!” Spamton exclaimed before popping it into the side of his mouth. “Nah, that’d be like burning money. This thing’s just for show, bigs.”

Tenna’s screen casing did the equivalent of an eye-roll. It seemed a lot of things about Spamton were just for show—not that he minded, though. It was often just what they needed for the cameras, and it made for an amusing quirk of his, if not a bit exasperating.

Still, just the sight of the unlit cigar made his stomach turn a little uncomfortably.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling as he glanced around again. From here, the stage was visible just past another group of Darkners gathered nearby, the lights above it shining bright and sending glittering rays across the room as they bounced off the more reflective décor. Under normal circumstances, the sight would have filled Tenna with further excitement—getting to address everyone underneath those radiant spotlights was something he prided himself on, after all.

But tonight, it made his pulse accelerate with an odd tinge of nervous dread. They hadn’t been here for long, but already, the lights were beginning to reinvigorate his headache—one that was lovingly betrothed to an undertone of queasiness that had invited itself along for the ride. The further in they walked, the more he couldn’t help shying away from their glare.

It hardly helped, though, as the constant droning of voices around him was adding to the disorientation whirling around in his head. To his right, a camera flash suddenly went off, making him wince as its blinding light assaulted him, if only briefly.

Despite all his efforts, he was starting to feel really, really dizzy.

“Hey,” he heard Spamton say, “there’s Queen. Figures she’d show up to something like this, huh?”

Tenna managed to follow his gaze and, sure enough, the blue-and-white figure of the city’s ruler was standing confidently near the center of the room, conversing rather exuberantly with several other guests. Though he enjoyed Queen’s company well enough, for whatever reason, the sight of her alongside so many other prestigious Darkners only served to worsen the nerves twisting inside his stomach. If she were to see him here and now, he’d likely be in for a lengthier conversation than he was prepared for.

He swallowed thickly, wincing at how much it scraped against his throat. Water—he needed water before he could manage any sort of interaction.

“Haha, yeah, uh, you go ahead,” Tenna said, flicking an antenna anxiously. “I’m gonna head over to the Green Room first, actually. Get some refreshments before we get too crazy here, right?”

Spamton looked up at him skeptically, and for a moment, Tenna feared he might try to sway him into staying. But to his relief, he simply nodded.

“Good idea. I’ll go with you.”

Tenna returned the gesture, and with no further hesitation, he turned to head towards the Green Room. Luckily, it was right next door, being only a short hallway’s distance away. But even then, he found that he had to force himself to keep a normal pace on the way, resisting the urge to practically sprint away from the chaos of the showroom.

Soon enough, the double doors signaling the entrance stood before them, and Tenna pushed his way through, allowing Spamton to follow beside him. However, the moment they entered, he felt his heart drop as he realized that things weren’t much calmer here. Much like the showroom, the place was alive with Darkners moving about and chattering, the flurry of movement dizzying him the more they crossed his vision.

“Hey, Cathode?” Spamton asked after a moment, drawing attention to the fact that Tenna had come to a standstill. “You alright? You, uh, look a little pale. Which is… impressive. Practicing for your next horror role or somethin’?”

“What? Oh—no, don’t worry about it, I’m fine,” he replied, making an effort to keep his antennas upright as he spoke.

He was, wasn’t he? It was just nerves, surely.

Spamton narrowed his eyes, seeming as though he wouldn’t accept his answer. Then, with nothing more than a shrug, he replied, “Uh-huh. Whaddya want from the bar, then? Champagne?”

The mere thought of the fizzy liquid entering his stomach was making everything else already inside it feel unsettled. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping he could coax the feeling to go away.

“Uhh… just water’s fine, actually,” he said, his voice wavering slightly.

“Really? That’s it? Isn’t the whole point of this thing that it’s an excuse to get drunk?”

“What? N-no, it’s… I mean, it’s more than that, it’s…” Tenna trailed off, struggling to come up with an excuse of his own not to get drunk right now. Turns out, it wasn’t as easy a task as it should’ve been; Spamton wasn’t entirely right, but he wasn’t entirely wrong either.

But in his hesitation, he must’ve begun looking worse off than he thought, as Spamton’s expression softened suddenly. “Y’know what? Why don't you wait here for a sec and I'll get you your water, on the house,” he said, giving Tenna a quick pat on the leg.

Instinctively, Tenna wanted to argue; he was perfectly capable of walking up to the bar and doing so himself, wasn’t he? And yet, with the way the room was spinning ever-so-slightly in front of him, he couldn't bring himself to feel anything other than relief at the offer, so instead, he gave a small, pitiful nod of gratitude.

“I guess if you want to, sure... thanks,” he added quietly.

“Be right back,” Spamton chimed before heading off.

Tenna watched him for a moment, but he'd quickly gotten lost in the crowd, and he lowered his gaze in turn, the continuous movement making him feel a little unsteady on his feet. Against his will, his antennas bent as they drooped closer against his head, the vibration just as dizzying given how sensitive they'd become to all the noise surrounding him. With each second that ticked by, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that whatever was coming over him was doing so fast.

As quickly as he could manage, he moved over to stand by the wall next to the bar, hoping that it would be enough to quell the discomfort rising in his stomach now that he was no longer at the center of it all. Beside him, the Green Room vending machine almost succeeded in hiding him from the prying eyes of the others, were it not for the fact that he towered well above it at this height.

Come on, get it together! You’re fine—just breathe, damn it...  

Unfortunately, each breath that he took was only putting more pressure on his guts, and he found himself overcome by another violent shiver. Odd—despite the chill, he felt rather stuffy in his suit, the heat becoming somewhat unbearable. Beads of sweat had begun to form around the top of his screen, contributing to the discomforting mixture of hot and cold brushing against the surface of his metallic skin.

All around him, the room spun a little faster.

“Here ya go, Cathode,” Spamton said, his voice suddenly ringing out as he reappeared from the crowd.

The sound prompted Tenna to twitch his antennas in that direction, which turned out to be a huge mistake, as the abrupt motion was all it took to send him reeling over the edge of vertigo. Immediately, he felt his knees start to buckle underneath him, and he swayed viciously to the side, catching the top of the vending machine with one hand as he held himself up against it unsteadily. He raised his other hand to his head, desperately hoping to hold back the dizziness as his antennas bent in distress.

Startled, Spamton set down the cup of water he’d been carrying on the nearest table before rushing over to Tenna’s side, reaching out to tug at one of his pant legs as though he could somehow stabilize his much larger counterpart.

“Whoa, easy,” he said with the cigar still firmly planted in his mouth, his tone taking on a much deeper layer of concern than Tenna was used to hearing from him. “You feelin’ okay, there, bigs?”

“Mmnh… feel woozy,” Tenna muttered, suddenly too weak to manage much else. On top of how heavy his head felt, the knot in his stomach was growing ever tighter, gnawing ever sharper, consuming his mind with the panic of the realization that his whole body was beginning to rebel against him.

Okay, maybe this wasn’t just stress or nerves after all.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Spamton said, almost as though he’d read his thoughts. He frowned then, still lightly grasping at the fabric of Tenna’s suit as though he feared he’d topple over if he let go. “You, uh, don’t look too good, hotshot. You gonna be okay to walk around in a minute?”

Despite himself, Tenna forced a small nod, still leaning heavily against the machine beside him. It was practically a miracle he hadn’t broken through the top of it with all his weight. “Yeah, I—I’ll be fine, just give me a second…” Please, please get it together already…

Another bead of sweat raced down the side of his screen. His heart was beating a little too fast in his chest, but as he tried to steady his breathing, a new sound interrupted his efforts, breaking through the surrounding cacophony. Just a few feet in front of them, a guest had bumped into one of the Shadowguy caterers, sending the tray of champagne in fancy glassware they’d been carrying clattering dramatically to the ground.

“Hey, watch it!” They snapped, only to receive an angry saxophone note in response.

The yelling had certainly been loud enough on its own. But the moment the sound of glass shattering pierced his antennas, followed by the sight of bubbly, foaming liquid splattering all over the tiles, something snapped inside Tenna. Immediately, he felt himself doubling over even harder as his stomach lurched violently, a half-suppressed retch escaping his throat. His other hand abandoned his head to frantically cover his mouth instead, and for a moment, he stood frozen in that position, hoping desperately that it had sounded like nothing more than a cough.

Please, not now, not in front of everyone, don’t you DARE—

To his great misfortune, his body was in no shape to listen to his pleas. What had already begun was now thoroughly inevitable, and as he tried to swallow everything back, he found that his mouth was practically pooling with saliva that only doubled in volume upon its return. Suddenly, everything inside him seemed utterly inhospitable, swirling around in his head and clawing at his gut in protest. Beside him, Spamton let go of his suit at last, perhaps sensing that something wasn’t quite right.

“Cathode…? Hey, maybe you should sit down, or—”

Tenna didn’t even hear him, still hopelessly willing himself to keep it together one last time. But of course, it was in vain—the sickening bile in his stomach was rising fast, and before he knew it, another forceful retch had torn through his throat, bringing with it a surge of prismatic vomit that quickly joined the champagne in splattering the once-pristine tiles of the Green Room.

In all his stubbornness, some of it had managed to soak into his glove before he could pull his hand away, the error bar-colored fluid staining the white fabric with ease. Meanwhile, the rest of it began to coat the floor in front of him, contrasting the sleek black color of his suit.

As if on cue, everyone in the room had frozen in shock. Even as Tenna had nearly finished spilling the contents of his stomach, coughing wetly as the last of it burned its way through him, he could hear several of them gasp from further away. For the first second or so after, his whole body was shaking too badly for him to react properly, the strength having been drained from him without mercy.

Then, as he managed to lift his head just enough to meet some of their gazes, it hit him: holy fuck, he’d just thrown up all over the floor in front of everyone. Well, everyone who happened to be in the Green Room presently, but that detail hardly mattered right now. The night was ruined either way.

In the span of three seconds or so, Tenna shrank down in size until he was no more than a few inches tall, desperate to hide himself away from them and the liquid shame splattered in front of him. He couldn’t help it—the process was automatic, and soon enough, the whole world had begun to tower over him in turn. He didn’t stay in that spot for long, though, as he suddenly felt himself being whisked skyward as Spamton reached out to scoop him up.

“Shit… alright, c’mon, move it,” he said, quickly pushing his way through the crowd of onlookers with Tenna held protectively in his hands. “Mind your own damn business, people!”

Tenna was too winded to protest quite yet, but as he was carried towards one of the northernmost exits, he could hear one of them mutter under their breath: “Well, there goes our entertainment for tonight…”

Great. Great. Apparently, he had managed to one-up himself this year, if only in the worst way possible. Nothing quite like watching the host nearly get sick all over himself before the main event had even begun, right? Right?!

Luckily, Spamton managed to make short work of slipping away into his dressing room before he could spiral too far, the door to which was connected by a short hallway from the Green Room. As soon as he’d entered and shut the door behind him, he let out a deep sigh and turned to place Tenna on the nearby dresser. Still a little unsteady, he stumbled a bit before opting to sit down on the wooden surface, too exhausted and shaken to stand for the moment.

“Gods, Tenn, you feel like a hot water bottle. How long have you been feeling this sick for?”

Tenna tilted his head up at him, partially avoiding his gaze. “…All day,” he murmured. “Wasn’t that bad at first; didn’t think it was a big deal…”

“Seriously, bigs? You couldn’t get it through that thick casing of yours that you might not be up for this?” He shook his head briefly in disbelief, or perhaps it was disappointment. “Or, uh, should I call you smalls now?”

His antennas drooped even further. What more could he even say? He was right—he’d pushed himself too far this time.

“…Right.” Spamton sighed again. “Well, you’re definitely coming down with something now, if you still didn’t figure that out,” he half-teased. “So, uh… you want an ice cube or somethin’?”

“…What?”

“Y’know, for the fever.” Spamton shrugged. “I dunno what else to give you at this size.”

Tenna wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Even if the idea wasn’t ridiculous, he was still thoroughly chilled on his own despite the warmth emanating from him. So instead, he groaned softly in response, his emotions finally catching up to how physically unwell he was beginning to feel.

“…’M sorry. I just wanted to spend the night having fun with you…”

But to his surprise, instead of being met with more reprimanding, Tenna watched as Spamton’s expression shifted into the same one of concern he’d shown in the Green Room, his brow furrowing delicately.

“Tenn… you’re such an idiot, you know that?” A hint of frustration lingered in his tone, though his eyes remained sympathetic in their shine. “Look, there’s always next year, right? I’ll even make you a deal: how about you rest up for tonight, and I’ll take care of the rest? I mean, how hard can reading off a couple of cue cards be, anyway?”

That didn’t sound like a particularly fair trade to Tenna. Just turn in and leave all the responsibility to someone else? If anything, it only served to worsen his guilt, which stirred uncomfortably in his still-uneasy stomach. But given that feeling, on top of the way his head was continuing to reel with feverish wooziness, it seemed there was little choice left in the matter. Besides, there was no way in hell he’d be able to show himself out there for the rest of the night. Not after that.

He simply nodded, the exhaustion washing over him now that the reality of it all was sinking in at last. “Okay…”

“Good,” Spamton replied, seeming relieved by his answer. “Can you walk back to your room okay?”

“I—I think so…”

But it was easier said than done. For a moment, Tenna focused on the feeling of respite it would bring to collapse into his bed, finally freed from the weight that had been pressing down on him all day. It was just enough to ignite the magic within him, and he began to grow ever so slightly…

…Until he was immediately hit by a brutal wave of vertigo, dizzying him all over again. Had he not already been sitting, it surely would have knocked him back down with how intense the sensation was, gripping his body and squeezing until his stomach lurched anew.

“Nnnggh…”

As Tenna reached up to hold his head in his clean hand, Spamton tsk’d.

“No good, huh?” He gave another short sigh. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll take you there myself.”

Before he could protest, Tenna found himself being lifted into the air again, his antennas twitching in surprise. Thankfully, the feeling didn’t last too long, as Spamton worked to stabilize him in his grasp.

With that, they exited the dressing room and, after a very hasty and conspicuous walk across the Green Room, they were headed through the hallways once more. Tenna squirmed uncomfortably for a few seconds, the prospect of being carried like this a little too undignified for his tastes. And yet, at the same time, it was strangely comforting to allow himself the much-needed break, surrounded by the warm embrace of Spamton’s palm.

If given enough time, he might have even drifted off to sleep in this state.

However, as they rounded a corner, Tenna started as he felt Spamton stop abruptly.

…Why’d we stop?

The question answered itself soon enough once Tenna managed to lift his gaze to see that a pale pink Addison was approaching from the opposite direction, dressed in an equally fanciful black suit and walking with an edge of confidence. Vague recognition sparked within him, but his mind was a tad too muddled right now to put a name to the face.

Spamton, on the other hand, clearly recognized him, and a flurry of indecision flashed in his eyes. Then, in a swift, somewhat clumsy motion, he lifted Tenna higher yet, scrambling to drop him into the opening of his chest pocket.

“Wha—hey!!” Tenna protested, squirming even more.

“Sorry, Cathode,” Spamton muttered under his breath. “Just give me a sec here…”

“Spam, wait—”

Alas, he went unheard as he was placed unceremoniously into the pocket, sinking against the bottom of the fabric as it warped and stretched around him. Right away, he heard the voice of the other Addison speak up from beyond it.

“Spamton—fancy seeing you here, eh? Still working your way through those sponsors, then?”

Right—this guy was a CEO of some kind, wasn’t he? Tenna couldn’t recall the details very well, but it made sense given Spamton’s reaction. Meeting him here like this practically oozed opportunity—one his partner wouldn’t dare miss, apparently. Still, he would’ve much preferred to not have been shoved in here like spare change.

“You bet!” Spamton’s voice rose from all around him, filled with that same bravado Tenna had gotten so acquainted with. “But, you know, I could always make room for one more if you’re offering.”

…Seriously? Now?! Was he going to have to sit here through his whole attempt at practically begging this guy for a gig? Under normal circumstances, he might have been amused, but under the current ones, he simply wasn’t up for it, as Spamton had put it so bluntly earlier.

However, Tenna quickly found that he didn’t really have the luxury of being exasperated by this. As the two of them began to talk, they must have started walking further down the hall, judging by the sudden way the fabric was moving around him, and…

Oh—oh no.

The bouncing motion of each step was rattling him in a way that was deeply, inescapably sickening. Right away, a renewed sea of nausea rose within him, the waves cresting and crashing violently against his stomach lining. Apparently, he hadn't managed to empty himself the first time, as he could feel his insides sloshing uncomfortably alongside Spamton's rhythmic movements, and the pressure of it all was building back up fast.

This was not going to end well.

“Spam...? Spammy?!” Tenna choked out, weakly pawing at his chest through the suit in a desperate attempt to get his attention. “I—I don't feel too good...”

To his dismay, Spamton didn’t acknowledge him, their voices drowning out his with ease.

Can he not hear me...?!

Tenna's heartrate practically doubled. He was trapped here, the panic setting in just as quickly as the ever-growing nausea. He couldn't—he couldn't let himself ruin another thing tonight, not again!

In a last-ditch effort to keep everything down, he swallowed hard, fighting to steady his frayed antennas at the same time as though that would help. But it soon became apparent that the pressure was getting to be too much, and the swaying of each step only made things worse, causing the world to spiral around him. Again, he swallowed, hoping—praying—that it would somehow be enough.

“…Ulp!”

He rushed a hand over his mouth, heart pounding all the while. Despite the chills, his screen suddenly felt like the surface of the sun, still beaded with sweat that raced down the glass. Shit—he was going to be sick again whether he liked it or not, wasn’t he? Maybe he could reach the top of the pocket before it happened, or… no, he was too dizzy and weak to attempt anything like that, never mind the fact that even the thought of moving was enough to make his stomach lurch. Then, maybe he could just will himself to wait it out? Except that never worked on TV, which meant…

“Hrrkh—!”

With a heaving retch, another surge of glitchy, multicolored vomit erupted from him, burning the back of his throat on the way out. In a flash, it had coated the inside of the expensive suit material, and as Tenna violently coughed up the last of it, he felt Spamton’s whole body tense up around him. The second it had soaked in enough, he’d stopped walking, the sudden halt just as jarring.

“Ah—y-yes, well,” Spamton said, faltering mid-conversation through a tightly-clenched jaw, “it was great catching up, but I, uh, havesomewhereelsetobe, so—”

Tenna didn’t hear whether the other Addison had replied. All he knew was that Spamton was moving away from there very fast, likely heading for the nearest hallway corner.

He’s going to kill me, Tenna thought, still reeling hard from the second bout of puking. He’s actually going to kill me.

It was a good thing he was already at his minimum possible size; otherwise, he’d probably be microscopic by now.

At last, Spamton came to another halt and, after a heavy sigh, Tenna winced as light poured in from above him and he was gently raised into the air once more, gripped by the back of his own black suit.

“Damn it, Tenn…”

Now adjusted so that he was sitting flat in Spamton’s palm, Tenna caught a glimpse of the aftermath. Though the colors were mostly obscured by how dark the material was in the front, there were still traces of rainbow coloration visible on his chest as the liquid had soaked through, and it was especially visible on his white dress shirt underneath.

It… it would probably wash out, but at least for tonight, the suit was ruined.

Tenna shivered, overwhelmed by the feverish array of emotions flooding him.

“I—I’m sorry, I—”

Spamton shook his head. “No, it’s okay, it’s not your fault. Just wish you’d told me you weren’t feeling good before we got all dressed up.” He smiled then, his gaze oddly comforting. “Come on, bigs, let’s both get cleaned up. You get some rest, and don’t even worry ‘bout tonight. I’ll just wing it, y’know?”

Despite the guilt still worming its way through him, Tenna managed to meet his gaze with a small nod of agreement, and for a moment, he couldn’t help but feel a little safer resting in the palm of his hand.