Chapter Text
1996
Maybe Spamton doesn't always eat the healthiest.
He looks down at his microwave meal, steam still pouring out of the plastic container. For how cheap it is, it's actually not bad at all. Or maybe Spamton has just grown used to the taste of mediocrity. Whatever. He generally enjoys the stuff he eats. Skär always loves to tease him about being a brokie, the pink-haired bastard, but it's easy for him to talk. Spamton bets he cooks for himself every night. Fresh veggies and expertly cut meat from that fancy supermarket sponsored by Queen. He bets Skär never has to worry about where his next meal is coming from.
None of them have to. None of those colorful pricks Spamton works with know what it's like to have to keep track of every single dollar they spent.
Spamton can feel himself growing more and more frustrated with every bite he takes of the greasy mashed potatoes. He's been feeling agitated a lot lately, every time he thinks about his co-workers. But at least thinking about them is a good distraction from eating. Distracts him from the fact that he's already taking his last bite, the container before him now empty. Spamton clinks his fork against the counter, eyes repeatedly drifting over to the fridge. His mouth waters with the desire for more. His fingers twitch with how much he needs it.
You're not hungry, Spamton reminds himself. He has to physically restrain himself from not opening the fridge as he walks past it to dump his container into the trash can. You're just in the mood to eat.
The rational thoughts don't do anything to quell Spamton's want to eat. The only thing stopping him from finally opening that door and raiding whatever is inside, is the realization that he's already planned out every meal for the rest of the week. If he eats those hotdogs, he won't have any lunch tomorrow. If he eats that frozen pizza, he won't have dinner Wednesday.
Goddamn it. Spamton's eyes drift to the half-eaten bag of potato chips peeking out from within the cupboard. He gnaws on his bottom lip in contemplation for a moment before grabbing a bowl. It's already too late to ignore his desires but he won't eat everything right now. Settling for a compromise, Spamton grabs a handful of chips out of the bag and puts them in the bowl.
For the rest of the evening, Spamton distracts himself by watching several TV Time tapes. Though he succeeds in only eating the handful of chips, his eyes keep being drawn to the kitchen in between clips of Mr. Anthony Tenna jumping around on stage.
Eating out at restaurants is its own brand of awful and frustrating.
While Spamton himself survives off of bland, pre-prepared meals, his co-workers go out to eat at least once a week. Which he frankly doesn't understand at all. Even stranger, they always seem keen on inviting Spamton along with them. He's suspicious about it every time, and yet he never declines, not even when money is tight. Which it usually is.
But Spamton wants to stay in their good graces. While he has some complicated feelings towards those four, he's not a total idiot. They work together every single day. Spamton isn't about to make himself even more of an outcast by not hanging out with them after work. Even if it means he has to sit through endless teasing, all while those other guys get a second, a third, a fourth drink while Spamton savors every single sip of his first. At least they have the decency not to suggest splitting the bill.
"So, like, I told the customer, we don't carry those in here!" Skär is in the midst of recounting a tale about an unruly customer. Spamton makes sure to listen attentively, if only so he doesn't scarf down his food in one go. "And, guess what she says?"
"Let me speak to your manager?" Nam-saek guesses, slightly exasperated, running a hand through their blue hair.
"Right on the money!!" Skär's ponytail bounces behind him as he nods enthusiastically. "It's their go-to response for any situation, always!"
"I get what you mean." Amarillo chimes in. Spamton finds his eyes lingering on the man's Adam's apple as he speaks. "The other day, a customer asked for the manager because I told him baseballs aren't a good replacement for tennis balls?? You know, when playing tennis???"
"It's a customer's world and we're just living in it....." Taronja scoffs before downing the rest of her drink in one go.
"Amen!!"
Just as Spamton is about to tear into the rest of his spaghetti, Taronja leans in close to him, cupping a hand over his ear in order to whisper to him. "Spam, can you come to the bathroom with me?"
"Ugh, why??" Spamton murmurs in response, not at all keen on leaving his food unattended. Perhaps a bit nonsensical of him, considering his co-workers are perfectly able to afford their own meals.
"I need help with my dress!!" The girl pleads, orange curls tickling Spamton's face as she speaks.
"O-okay, okay......" He gently pushes her away. Spamton reluctantly gets up from his seat before trailing after Taronja like a shadow.
She leads the way, and now that she's in front of him, Spamton can see that the zipper on her dress is indeed not closed properly. So he can't exactly blame her for asking for help. Still, that doesn't mean that Spamton is any happier to have to go into the women's bathroom. That overwhelming sense of not belonging hits Spamton full force the moment the two of them walk through the door.
At least there aren't any other women around currently. Their oftentimes odd looks whenever he enters a bathroom both make him deeply uncomfortable and simultaneously elated. It's a bit of a mess.
"Thanks for helping me, Spam!" Taronja sighs out once Spamton has adjusted the dress for her.
"N-no problem." The young man intends on walking right back out, only to be stopped by Taronja pushing her open purse right into his hands. "Can you watch my bag for me?? Thanks!~"
Without waiting for a response, the red-head fishes a pad out of her bag before disappearing inside one of the cubicles. Spamton goes to wait by the sink with a scowl on his face. He puts Taronja's bag down on the counter, a little too hard it seems, given that it immediately flops onto its side. Make-up, a wallet and other trinkets slide out, along with-
.....chocolate bars.
Spamton's gaze immediately fixates on the treats. Fuck. Of course she'd be the kind of person to have snacks on her at all times. Probably has the foresight to bring food in case there's a delay somewhere. Spamton only ever brings gum with him whenever he remembers. If only so he has something to do with his mouth, when the urge to eat becomes unbearable. Spamton tries to ignore it. He really does. He neatly puts everything back into the purse and is in the process of zipping it shut, to leave it alone but-
But what if he gets hungry later tonight?
Spamton will be leaving the restaurant before those guys even have a chance to ask for mediocre, overpriced dessert. He'll finish his spaghetti and make a break for it. But.....he still needs to take a tram home. Still needs to make it through the obligatory hour of lying awake in bed before he manages to fall asleep. The thought of curling up into his blankets on an empty, groaning stomach makes cold dread run through Spamton's veins.
Maybe just one. She won't even notice.
In the end, Spamton steals two chocolate bars out of Taronja's bag. When she returns from the toilet, she reaches into her purse to grab her lipstick and touch up on her make-up, oblivious to Spamton sweating bullets beside her. If she notices the missing snacks, she doesn't say anything about them, fixing her short companion with a grin.
"Thanks for waiting, girl!"
Not a fucking girl. Spamton has to bite his tongue not to say it. She's got no idea......none of these guys do. So instead, he just offers her the best smile he can muster up, tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him.
Later that night, Spamton lies awake on his mattress, two empty wrappers beside him and his stomach still uncomfortably empty.
He feels like a dirty, dirty thief.
1997
The first time Tenna takes him out to dinner, it's at TV Time studios' cafeteria, right after an intense, two hour rehearsal of tonight's live show.
Spamton will be making his debut for the first time. He still can't quite wrap his head around it. It feels like he's dreaming. Even Tenna's arm around his shoulder, gently guiding Spamton towards the counter, feels surreal. Ramb, the British guy in charge of food and drinks, nods at the approaching men in acknowledgement.
"Mr. Tenna." Ramb greets his boss, nonchalant, then turns to Spamton with a slightly friendlier smile. Spamton assumes it's because he's still new. Tenna himself has quite the reputation amongst staff. "Mr. Spamton. What can I get ya, luv?"
"Uh....." Spamton blanks, eyes fleeting over the menu. The options are limited. Most of the food items have ridiculous names, usually something TV Time or pop culture related. Spamton instinctively searches for the cheapest item, only to startle when Tenna unexpectedly puts his hands on his shoulders from behind.
"Get WHATEVER you want, Spamton!! MY treat!" Affection is oozing out of the man's tone. Spamton is frankly in disbelief at how quickly Mr. Tenna has become familiar with him. Sure, they've spent a lot of time together in the weeks following Spamton's debut as co-host, but they're still practically strangers to one another.
"O-oh, well....." The salesman has to clear his throat in order to gain the confidence to make his order. A bigshot like him shouldn't be this insecure over some food!! "I'll ha-have a b-burger and fries!"
"OH!!! AMAZING choice!!" Tenna is as ecstatic about Spamton's taste in food as he is about the man's sales pitches. Spamton is unable to suppress a little smirk, his ego pleasantly stroked. "Ramb, I'll have one of those too!!!"
Spamton has to actively fight to keep his eyes locked onto Tenna while Ramb cooks. The kitchen is right behind the bar, meaning the smell of meat being cooked sits in the air, a delicious temptation. His stupid caveman brain is unable to control itself whenever a meal is nearby, screaming at him to eat, eat, EAT!!!!!!
By the time Ramb has set their burgers and fries down, the saliva is pooling in Spamton's mouth. Still, he doesn't dive right in, fingers twitching around the burger as he waits for Tenna to take the initiative. Tenna doesn't seem to share Spamton's inner desperation, taking his sweet time folding his napkin open on his lap and tugging off his silk gloves.
"Bon appetit!" The very second Tenna's teeth dig into his burger, Spamton goes to town on his own.
Something in Spamton's brain switches off the moment he takes a bite out of the surprisingly good quality burger. He takes a bite. Then another. Then another. Before he knows it, he's completely tearing up the food in his hands, almost biting into his own fingers. Spamton is distantly aware of how disgusting he must look right now. Animalistic. Not lady like.
But fuck it. He's not a lady anymore. He's a man. And a man's gotta eat.
"GOSH, Spamton!!" Tenna whistles a little, visibly impressed with the speed at which the tiny man next to him inhaled his meal. Tenna's own burger is only halfway through being devoured. "Did they not feed you in Cyber City???"
"Oh, you h-have no idea....." Spamton chuckles, wiping splatters of ketchup off his face with a napkin. Tenna finishes his burger just as Spamton empties his basket of fries. They're absolutely delicious, breaking in his mouth with a satisfying crunch. He could easily eat a hundred more.
Tenna unfortunately (or fortunately?) picks up on this, observing his new co-host with a little grin on his handsome face. "That's the face of a man who could still eat a horse! RAMB!! Two more burgers, please!"
"A-and fries!!" Spamton happily adds.
The second burger meets essentially the same fate, only this time Tenna tries to keep up with the pace. Despite having a bigger mouth, the TV host is unable to match the sheer degeneracy with which Spamton eats his food. With no effort, Spamton finishes his burger before Tenna. Defeated, Tenna slows down his own pace while the little salesman moves onto his fries.
"You are something else, Spamton. G. Spamton......" Tenna sighs out, clearly unsure whether to be impressed or horrified. Leaning towards the latter, it seems, judging by the way his eyebrows fly all the way up to his hairline once Spamton's gaze drifts back to the kitchen. "No....a THIRD????"
Spamton shrugs helplessly. Sue him. He hasn't eaten a good, hearty meal in a while. "What c-can I say? I'm a b-big shot....."
"I can see that!" The big guy ponders it over for a moment, then fondly shakes his head. "I can't believe I'm doing this, but.....RAMB!! Two MORE burgers!!"
Spamton looks up at Tenna with big eyes, ecstatic that he's being indulged like this. The third burger is eventually shoved in front of Spamton. Though he tries to eat this one more slowly, the salesman finds himself unable to keep himself from cramming the food into his mouth as quickly as possible. He has to wait several minutes for Tenna to finish his own burger and just as Spamton is about to suggest ordering a fourth, his companion breathes out a shaky sigh.
"Man, I'm STUFFED!! I'm gonna have to call it quits! If I eat any more, I don't think the audience will recognize me tonight!"
Something about the words rattles Spamton. Leaves him sitting there motionlessly on the bar stool. Tenna pats him on the back, says something underwater, and pays his tab before sauntering off. Ramb thankfully doesn't comment on Spamton's sudden, strange behavior. Just does the dishes while the new co-host sits around like a puppet without its strings attached.
Three burgers and two full baskets of fries. And he was about to order a fourth burger. What the fuck?
The realization has Spamton digging his fingers into his legs through his pants. It feels like he's hitting some kind of post-meal clarity. And God, is the clarity uncomfortable. Now that he's not actively eating anymore, Spamton can pay attention to how suffocatingly full he feels. To the dull pain in his stomach. Shit. Why'd he think that would be a good idea? Spamton hasn't eaten that much at once in years. Who knows how much more he would've ate if Tenna, a guy at least twice his size, hadn't called it quits?
Spamton absent-mindedly licks his lips.
Okay. This was just a one-time thing. Surely no one can blame Spamton for getting a little excited when he's eating on somebody else's money. Once he becomes used to having the money to buy food whenever he wants, he'll calm down.
This won't happen again.
Except it does.
It happens so often after that first time, that it becomes part of Spamton's new routine. His debut was very well-received among both TV Time fans and people only interested in his sales. Spamton can still remember the absolute euphoria he'd felt upon receiving that big, fat co-host paycheck. The first thing Spamton had done with the new influx of money, was book himself an appointment with the best surgeon Cyber City had to offer.
The second thing he did, was go out to eat.
Which wasn't strange at all. Food is often a way to celebrate after a big achievement. A reward for a good job. That in and of itself wasn't off putting.
.....what was a little off putting, was that Spamton ate four plates of spaghetti that night. And three slices of cake for dessert. And, at home, a handful of cheese sticks as well.
Spamton wishes he could say that that was the last time he did such a thing. But it wasn't. Now that Spamton can eat without even having to glance at the price, he's having difficulty stopping. Which isn't bad.....at first. At first, Spamton could justify it as passing excitement. A fixation that would blow over soon. He was too thin, anyways. Tenna kept telling him that he should eat well, put some meat on his bones. So Spamton did.
But the problem with putting meat on your bones is that, well, it can't be too much. Spamton doesn't want his weight to fluctuate too much, especially not when he's live on camera every day. So when he's not eating, he's exercising to try and balance everything out. Which is good, Spamton frankly looks the best he's ever looked now that he's on T and working out, but it does mean that he's on a tight schedule.
A schedule Tenna doesn't always appreciate.
"Spamton.....?" The bigger man mumbles in the dark, bonnet slipping over his eyes as he leans onto his elbows. Spamton freezes from where he's been trying to re-dress himself out of his pajamas as quietly as possible.
Tenna sits upright in the bed, turning his head to look at Spamton's digital alarm clock. They've been having sleepovers at his place more often lately. While they still can, given that Spamton is finally moving into Queen's mansion next month.
"I-I'm just g-gonna hit the t-treadmill, Tens." Spamton tries to be nonchalant about it, slipping into his sweatpants. That only seems to piss Tenna off even more, his lover's expression turning sour, obvious even in the dark.
"At three in the morning?" Tenna looks at the clock again as if he truly can't grasp the concept. "Who in HEAVEN'S name exercises at this ungodly hour???"
Spamton masks his guilt with a groan of annoyance at Tenna's reasonable frustration. "Me, okay? I-I forgot to exercise t-today, so....i-it'll be quick!"
"Will you be back in ten minutes?" Tenna questions.
"T-thirty minutes, tops!!" The salesman promises. His partner is unsatisfied with the answer, rolling over and turning his back on Spamton with a grumble.
Dejected, Spamton goes into the living room. On the couch, Friend raises its head at the unexpected footsteps. Two glowing eyes watch Spamton intently as he walks past. He scratches the cat under its chin in passing, a silent apology for potentially waking it. Talk about being a crappy boyfriend and pet owner.....
Still, it needs to be done. Spamton gets on the treadmill and puts it at a frankly unholy speed. He has to. Tenna threw a pizza party for the crew earlier today. And needless to say, Spamton didn't keep it at just a few slices. The consequences of that are some internal pain, running at three in the morning and enough shame to have made his past self cry.
But Spamton isn't his past self anymore. So he powers through the shame and guilt, ignores the voice in his head berating him for his own lack of discipline. The days where Spamton would physically restrain himself from opening the fridge feel very far away.
He can eat whatever he wants now. Whenever he wants. He never has to be hungry again. By all means and purposes, he's in control.
So then why does Spamton feel so powerless when he eats?
His feet slow down slightly on the running treadmill, sweaty eyebrows furrowing together as he thinks. He's purposely avoided dwelling on the subject too much until now but.....being up at this hour to exercise has involuntarily forced him into a position where it feels like he has to think about it. Like he has to confront the root of the problem.
Spamton is stubborn, though, so he promptly ignores thinking about it. Tries to will that caveman brain of his into focusing on move, move, move instead of the alternative. It works for a little while. Up until Spamton's foot slips and before he knows it, his body has been flung backwards onto the floor. He lies there pathetically, winded, motionless for so long that Friend eventually comes to check up on him.
The cat inquires him with a terrifyingly deep meow, moving to sit right on Spamton's heaving chest, as if actively trying to kill him. Still, the salesman is grateful for the animal's presence. Friend feels like a very needed barrier between him and that beautiful, beautiful fridge.
He could really go for some pudding right now.
Where Spamton likes to avoid a problem for as long as he can if it involves himself in any way, Tenna is all too happy to dive into other people's business head first.
"Spammy, we need to talk about your eating habits." Spamton rolls his eyes at the formal way Tenna is sitting across from him at the kitchen table. His professional tone doesn't match the stupid nickname he likes to use.
"Mhm." Spamton hums, dismissive. Promptly ignores the way he's currently holding his fifth chicken wrap. "Wh-what's there to talk about?"
Tenna leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He's still wearing his glasses, obscuring his eyes, though Spamton doesn't need to see them to decipher from literally everything else that the older man isn't happy with him. "Don't take this the wrong way, but.....I think you eat too much."
"Y-you calling me fat?" It's a joke, but it falls flat between them, making Spamton cringe.
"No." Tenna says honestly. "It's not about the way you look, darling, it's just.....it's a lot. You get tummy aches so frequently and sometimes you keep eating well after being full! It's not good for you, Spamton....."
"I-I exercise....." He weakly defends. It's not really a good excuse, he has to admit. Doesn't even do anything to disprove Tenna's argument either.
"Yeah, in the middle of the NIGHT!!" Tenna's composure slips for a moment, the words said through gritted teeth, before he collects himself again. "Point is.....there's nothing wrong with liking food, so do I, but the way you do it is....I don't know, compulsive? Are you even able to control yourself?"
Yes is on the tip of Spamton's tongue, but it dissolves like sugar in coffee before he can say it. Tenna must've very carefully picked this very moment to confront him, because Spamton is a few drinks in, meaning he has a tendency to lose some of his filter.
"Uh......" He stammers like an idiot. Can he control himself? Spamton isn't so sure. "I-I dunno....."
"I'm just saying....." The taller man reaches out to put his hand over Spamton's. His glasses have slipped down slightly, giving the salesman a glimpse of big brown eyes. "You wouldn't have to freak out over exercising so much if you just ate a little less.....or, at least, if you ate a little less all at once....."
"I-I know but.....it's just ha-hard, Tenna......" Spamton rests his forehead against the palm of his hand, chicken wrap now abandoned on his plate. He's lost his appetite. Nothing kills Spamton's food boner quicker than emotional vulnerability.
"Why is it hard for you?" Tenna asks, not judgmental but genuinely curious. Spamton is tempted to stay quiet, not even sure if he can verbalize what he feels, but the tender squeeze to his hand makes him reconsider.
"I-I just wanna appreciate t-that I can eat wh-whenever I want, you know? You n-never know what could happen one day......" It's the best Spamton can explain without revealing to Tenna that he used to be so piss poor that he had to plan every single meal out in advance. That's a chapter of his life he'd rather not ever look back on.
Tenna looks surprised by the admission, probably not having expected a bigshot like Spamton to be so aware of class issues and the possibility that anyone could suddenly be without regular food access. Little does the TV host know, Spamton's fear is purely selfish. Stems from an inability to accept a potential reality in which he has to go back to cheap microwave meals and going to bed hungry. Spamton just wants to enjoy the good stuff while it lasts.
"That's......" Tenna is at a loss for words, stupidly blinking at his partner for a moment before a wobbly smile makes its way onto his face. "Oh, Spamton, it's good that you're so aware of these things!! But....."
Tenna closes the distance between them, lanky body awkwardly leaning across the table in order to hug Spamton against his chest. "You won't EVER have to worry about not being able to eat, okay? Not with me, sirree!! I'll ALWAYS have a plate for you."
Maybe it's the alcohol. Or the way Friend has taken it upon itself to start eating his leftovers. Or how warm Tenna's embrace is. But.....just for a moment, Spamton feels okay. Like he isn't just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it's okay for him to just....relax. Enjoy what he has without always needing to think about the what ifs. Maybe he can just eat without the idea that it'll be his last meal hanging over his head.
He buries his face into Tenna's chest, hands moving up not to shoo the cat away from his food, but to hold something much more important. When Tenna finally pulls back, his round cheeks are flushed and warm in Spamton's hold.
And Spamton thinks he believes him.