Chapter Text
Spamton leans against the wall of the elevator. It’s chilly, much to the addison’s delight. The muted scent of sandalwood lingers in the air, cut with a trace of bleach. He tilts his head like a ragdoll, studying the tiled floor. It’s so polished it might as well be a mirror.
The elevator eases to a stop. A soft chime, and the doors part with scarcely a sound.
Polished shoes catch the hallway’s incandescent light as he steps out. The sandalwood blooms around him as he saunters down the hall.
He pulls out his keys, looking for his unit.
There it is.
Unit twenty-six.
The key slides into the lock with ease. A soft click, and the door gives.
Pink light from the setting sun filters through the curtains. Spamton sits on a stool, slips off his shoes, and sets them on the mat with care before sauntering to the balcony, sliding the door ajar.
A light breeze drifts in, carrying the unmistakable fragrance of daphne with a hint of camellia. Cars and trains hum in the distance, lulling him into a trance. His ruby eyes catch the fading light. They glisten like a crimson sea.
He inhales deeply.
Then he remembers.
Spamton stands, cracks his back, and saunters to the answering machine. He pushes up his glasses to better see. There are a dozen or so messages.
A smirk tugs at his lips as he rubs the nape of his neck. He presses a button and loosens his tie, working open the buttons of his jacket as the tape begins to play.
One by one, the messages drone on. He listens with absent regard until one cuts through the noise.
Hello, Spamton, this is Banner’s assistant calling back to remind you about your Thursday appointment at six in the evening. If you’re not arriving by train, guest spot number seven has been secured for you by the front door. We'll see you soon. Have a good day.
beep
Hello, Spamton; it’s Pops. Some friends and I are going to a grill this Friday at nine. I want to extend the offer to you and Emil if you’re both free. If not, I understand. Call me back. Bye.
beep
Hey, Tomi
Spamton perks up, turning his full attention to the phone.
It’s been a minute since you’ve called me back. I know you’ve been busy, but… Week’s been busy for me too, teaching and all. I can’t complain, though. Looks like work’s picking up for both of us, heh. But umm, yeah. Call when you can. Love -
Another message starts. Spamton stops the tape. Picks up the handset. Dials.
One number left.
RING
Spamton catches his breath.
RING
Feathers stand on end along his spine. A sharp claw rakes against his thumb as he pinches his shirt, glancing at the clock.
They’re calling…
At this hour?
RING
They won’t mind.
RING
Surely they won’t…
Spamton presses the switch arm.
There’s a muffled click.
Silence.
He dials again.
RING
RI-
“Hello?”
“Emil,” Spamton replies.
“Hey,” Emil returns as if out of breath.
“Are you ok?” Spamton asks, leaning forward.
“Yeah - was in the other room. It’s nice to hear your voice,” Emil exclaims like a pup. “Must have been busy. It’s been four days since you’ve called.”
Spamton rubs his mouth, then presses his hand against his chest. “Sorry about that. I’ve been clogged with the move and work.”
“Which one? Your new apartment or -”
“Apartment’s done,” Spamton clarifies. “It’s the dealership.”
“How’s that going?”
“Going well, uh - hectic, but well. I told the owner the commute from the country to home was a bit too much with everything else going on. He wants me to stay at the base location. Said I was the face of Big Shot Motors™. But he budged after a while.”
“He's right,” Emil chuckles. “You practically revitalized that place. Before you, they only had advertisements in the newspaper, if that. Now I’m hearing you on the radio. That’s just… It’s amazing, Tomi.”
Spamton stares out the window, his tongue rolling against his lower teeth.
“Hey,” Emil prods softly. “Something wrong?”
“Uh…” Spamton blinks a few times, shaking his head. “No,” he reassures, pacing about. “I’m tired, that's all.” He hesitates and swallows. “The company, they uh… They want me to do… I have an appointment with Banner.”
“Banner? For what?”
“Uh -” Spamton turns from the window and leans against the table, tapping his finger. “Commercial.”
“A commercial?” Emil repeats with utter awe and a hint of - something else. “Tomio… That’s great. That’s more than great,” he fawns breathlessly, “that’s amazing! You’ll be on TV?”
“That’s uh - that’s the thing,” Spamton titters. “They want me to be. That’s the whole point of going to Banner for a dressing and fitting. But…”
“What?”
Spamton turns back around and leans forward, hand pressed against the table. He stares at it; stark white plumage against the warm cherrywood beneath. “I don’t - I don’t want to be on camera. They're also wanting to put up billboards, heh...”
There’s an uneasy pause. A pause he's all too familiar with when too much has been said.
“... Is it because you’re -”
“Stage fright. It's stage fright.”
Another brief pause.
“When are you shooting the commercial?”
“A little over two weeks from now. I have a fitting and dressing tomorrow.”
“That short notice?”
“Yeah, well - I don’t call the shots,” Spamton chuffs.
“When does it air?”
“Don’t know, eh…” Spamton slicks back his crest. “A few months from now?”
“You don’t know?”
“I didn’t ask my assistant... Like I said, the team handles everything. I show where they need me - say what they need me to say,” Spamton shrugs, rubbing his shirt between his fingers.
“Well, I’m sure it’ll turn out good,” Emil reassures as though convincing himself. “I know it will. I mean - you’ve worked so hard. Come so far. You should be proud.”
“Thanks,” Spamton returns with a distant murmur. “Enough about me, though,” He redirects, clearing his throat. “How's your week so far?”
“It’s been good. Amazing if I'm being honest. My students are making significant progress.”
“That’s good. What are they playing now?”
“Most of them are still on pentascales, arpeggios, and Hanon, along with major chords. It’s their first time playing after all. Only one of my students is intermediate. The others are advanced.”
“I think I’m overdue for a refresher since I forget what those are,” Spamton laughs.
“You are overdue,” Emil replies as if Spamton were a pupil. Yet there’s a playful banter in his remak. Sensual. “We’ll have to schedule a session.”
“I’ll let you know if I’m open,” Spamton returns in jest.
“And when will that be?” Emil returns. Spamton could be mistaken, but a hint of bitterness corrodes Emil’s verbal caress.
“My schedule’s all over the place, but I’ll let you know; tomorrow for sure,” Spamton tries to reassure. “Um - say, how many students do you have again?”
“Five.”
“Five? That’s impressive. I mean - it is, right?”
“I guess.”
Spamton furrows his brow at Emil’s abrupt, curt responses. “How long are lessons?” he pries, striving to entertain the conversation.
“I’ve told you before. Lessons are between half an hour and an hour, depending on scheduling and age.”
“Hmm - so about five hours a day…” Spamton bites his lip, tapping his hand on the table. “That’ll be a full-time job in no time.”
“Yeah…”
Spamton restrains a sigh and leans forward. “That’s good, right?”
“Of course. I just don't want to take on too much work, you know?”
“What do you mean?” Spamton counters, furrowing his brow in agitation. “That’s not even full-time.”
“There’s things I’d like to do outside of work, Tomio.”
Spamton scoffs, leaning back a hair. “yeah, but you can adjust your hours, right? I mean, it’s not like my job.”
“... Yeah. I could adjust my hours…”
Spamton winces at Emil’s ricochet. “Hey, I didn’t mean to be a jerk,” he sighs. “It's that - this job? It's a lot... Still trying to find a balance, you know? Today’s Wednesday. Thursday and Friday are booked… Hey -,” he repetitively snaps his fingers as if igniting a distant memory. “Just remembered… This Saturday - I’m free,” he announces, shifting to a coltish tone. “My apartment’s setup. Still throwing out some boxes, but I have a real kitchen now. Tea on the patio? What do you say?”
“Patio?” Emil perks up.
“You forgot about the patio? It’s the best part. View over Cyber City and everything. I put a table and chairs out there for both of us.”
“Your place is that big?”
“Yeah,” Spamton smirks. “I wanted something spacious - for both of us.”
“I guess I’ll have to come over then,” Emil chuffs. “Oh - it’ll have to be after a midday class.”
“That’s fine,” Spamton shrugs. “What time are you free?”
“Some time after two. My student’s parents are paying me double for an extra half hour. I told them it wasn’t necessary, that an hour is more than enough, but they insisted.”
“Wow… Is this kid the next Mitsuko or something?”
“So you have been paying attention to some of my lessons at least,” Emil remarks, his grin almost audible. “With how she's playing? I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“If she’s that good, why the classes?”
“It’s for her entrance ceremony. She’s also trying to get into the music club.”
“Huh… Forgot those were a thing… I guess it is serious.”
“Very -” Emil emphasizes. “This school’s like a fight to the death when it comes to first impressions and club admissions. She wants to make sure she’s absolutely ready.”
“With you as her teacher? It’ll be a breeze.”
“Thanks,” Emil laughs breathlessly. “Even so, she’s still nervous she won't get in. I think it’s why her parents invited me to help make a good first impression.”
“Invited you where?”
“... To her entrance ceremony.”
“Kinda strange, but if my kid’s teacher’s the famous composer of half the jingles on TV and radio, I’d invite them too, come to think of it.”
“Was,” Emil reminds with a stoic beat. “Oh - she invited you as well.”
“What? Me? How would she know about me?”
“I uh - forgot to turn our photo on the piano around. I was still recovering from a migraine and was in a hurry to tidy the place. It was the last thing I was thinking of.”
“Still doesn’t explain why I’m invited. I mean, pretty weird for a kid to invite an adult they don't know if you ask me.”
“Well, she asked about you. And I…” There’s an audible gulp. “... I didn't want to lie.”
Spamton licks his lips, furrowing his brow. “What did you say?”
“I told her you’re a dear friend of mine, but… She's a smart kid,” Emil reminds with a tight titter.
“That’s my concern,” Spamton addresses. “You know how some people are.”
“Her parents met me numerous times, Tomi. I’m pretty sure they know.”
“But they haven’t met me. They don’t know about me.”
“We’ll keep it professional. Like we did back then.”
“And Spruce still knew. Treated us differently.”
“That was Spruce… You know he’s a bit of a toad.”
“You don’t know how this could go, Em.”
“I don’t know?” Emil counters with stinging precision.
Spamton slicks back his crest and paces about. “Sorry.”
“It’s - it’s fine. I’m… It’s the first time I’ve been invited to a ceremony and -” A shivering utterance quakes through the receiver. “You don’t have to go.”
“I’ll go.”
“I don’t want to force -”
“You’re not forcing me, Em.” Spamton wipes the side of his face. Claws scrape against his mandible and chin, and he pulls back, staring at the palm of his hand, rolling his fingers against one another. “Watching some kids at a talent show would be fun. And hey, we can get food and come back to my place - you still need to see it.”
“So it’s a date then, right? I’ll stop by your place this Saturday after two?”
“It’s a date,” Spamton smiles.
“And you’re sure?”
Spamton’s smile drops a hair. “Yeah, of course.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Ok,” Emil replies softly. “I’ll be by at four.”
“Great, oh - and don’t eat too much. I was thinking of treating you to Color Cafe™.”
“Color Cafe™?”
“You know, the cafe in Queen’s Mansion.”
“Tomio, that’s…You’d need a reservation.”
“I already have a table.”
“But, how?”
“Don’t really know… They kinda offered it to me since I go there all the time. Probably helps that Banner’s friends with Swatch, and it's our go-to for business. Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“Heh - your idioms are getting better,” Emil notes.
Spamton perks up. “Oh, I got it right this time? I’ve been trying to get them right.”
“Yeah,” Emil laughs. “I miss your versions, though.”
“But they were wrong,” Spamton chuffs.
“They were funny.”
“I guess. No one understood what I was saying half the time, though.”
“I did.”
Spamton purses his lips.
“I always did.”
“Yeah, well…” Spamton bites his lip, returning his attention to the window as the remaining sliver of sunlight vanishes. “It’s getting late. I’ll call you tomorrow, ok?”
“Promise?”
Spamton’s gaze remains locked onto the horizon. “Promise.”
“Ok,” Emil returns with a gentle laugh. “Call me tomorrow. I mean it. Love you.”
“Ditto.”
The handset settles into its cradle with a soft click, its sound swallowed by the spring wind. Spamton shuts the window, shaking off the chill.
A thin, wavering sigh slips through his lips as his posture slackens and he rubs his eyes with both hands beneath his glasses. He lowers them. His gaze lingers on the ebony phone. It’s old. One of the few relics from his prior residence. The only item from -
Spamton winces, as if struck, shaking the thought from his head. He paces aimlessly before drifting toward the bedroom. The light snaps on with the flick of his finger. He flinches from the glare, proceeding to undress.
As he slips off his jacket, he hesitates. His fingers linger over the fabric. It’s jet black, woven from the softest wool, sturdy yet light. Against it, his ivory hand stands out in harsh contrast. He swallows, tosses the jacket onto the bed, and continues to undress, as though something is nipping at his flesh.
RING
Spamton juts upward in alarm.
RING
Pools of red consume his ruby eyes as they dilate.
RING
He stumbles like a mad animal, sprinting to the phone.