#julius c. g. spamton

[sylphidine]

[Fic] Call Signs, Chapter 38

Fandom: Deltarune

‘Verse: Human AU

Pairings: Swatch/Spamton [Swatchton]; Spamton/T.M. [Spamager], GiGi/Leroux [QueenKaard]

Characters: Spamton Addison, Eos Addison, Swatch Paletta, Indigo Dyer, Catechu Dyer, Julius Dyer, Endora the Third, Desiree Dyer, T.M. Tinker, GiGi McCray, Leroux Kaard, Lance O'Toole, Kirov Rouvin

Rating: Mature

Chapter title: Scooby-Dooby Doors

Chapter summary: The days leading up to the Seeds of Peace Festival, as seen through varying points of view.

Author notes: Content warning for discussion of alcohol consumption, plus a [possible] hallucinatory experience.

Special thanks to @cozylittleartblog for permission to reference her QueenKaard comics. They've shaped a lot of the way I write GiGi, Leroux, and Lance.

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FRIDAY NIGHT, THE FIRST OF APRIL

Spamton had never seen a DVD hiccup like this one. Steve Sharples’ “Bolero” played out over the closing credits of MOULIN ROUGE!, and then kept looping back to play again. He’d seen audio tracks looped like this on YouTube, but a DVD doing it was new to him.

One heck of a coincidental scratch , he thought after the fourth time, and pushed his glasses up to rub at his eyes.

The music stopped in mid-chord, and the word “truth” was frozen in pixels on the screen

Huh?

And then it resumed with the orchestral flourish and the unfurling of the remaining words ”beauty, freedom, but above all, love.”

Definitely unsettled now, not knowing whether or not this was the first hallucination he’d had in months, he leaned over to poke a sleepy Eos.  “M-movie’s over.”

His eldest brother came back to attention at Spamton’s words and reached for the remote, turning the 85-inch flat screen TV off. “So what did you think this time, seeing it as an adult rather than as a kid?”

“Hmmmm.” Spamton wanted to give a serious answer, since this was obviously one of his sibling’s favorite movies. “C-can I be honest? I think the f-fact of Zidler and the Diamond D-Dogs losing their - their livelihood and their home is a LOT m-more tragic than Satine dying.”

He didn’t bother to explain that losing one’s livelihood and home might be just a touch relatable. No need to ruin an evening of family bonding.

Eos nodded in response to his statement. “Same here.  I like the IDEA of love as much as anyone, but that big romance between Christian and Satine?  That was mutual obsession, not love.  Satine was street-savvy, she knew the risks of stringing the Duke along and not delivering, but she let Christian’s infatuation blind her.  The pair of them were oblivious.  THAT’S not love.”

Warming to his topic, Eos continued, “When I’ve seen people in love, truly in love, they’re MORE aware of everyone around them, not less.” He leaned over and poked Spamton back.  “I think you might know a little more about that now than you did a few years ago.”

“G-Guilty as charged.” And Spamton did actually feel guilty for what felt like hours of rhapsodizing over his partners and monopolizing the conversation.  He could blame the booze for that. 

Digging out the special vanilla bean ice cream for dessert had turned into making a pitcherful of frozen Brandy Alexanders, the drinking of which had definitely loosened Spamton’s tongue and had made both Eos and him quite sentimental.  An over-the-top lushly romantic movie had seemed the perfect thing two hours ago, but he was starting to feel he didn’t know his eldest brother any better now than he did before he’d gotten off the train.

Spamton got up from the couch and sighed. “G-Guess it’s time to call it a n-night.” It was coming up on midnight, too late to text Trez. He could probably get away with shooting a quick note to Swatch, but figured it would be better to wait until morning.  

Eos got up too and wagged his finger at his baby brother. “You’ll come talk to me if you can’t sleep, right?  I’m here to listen, you know.  It means a lot to me that you WANT to talk to me.”

“I will. And I’ll c-c-come running if I have a n-nightmare.”

“I will. And I’ll c-c-come running if I have a n-nightmare.”

“See that you do.”

SATURDAY NIGHT, THE SECOND OF APRIL

Swatch woke up abruptly when a small heat-seeking missile unerringly found its target. worming its way under their outstretched arm.  

They had been lying spread-eagled on their front, taking up as much of the bed as possible, and hadn’t heard the bedroom door open.  They rolled back onto their side and pulled Spamton into a hug, sleepily kissing his cheeks, his nose, and finally his mouth.

“Welcome home,” they rasped. “Your nose is cold.”

“And you’re w-warm. Too warm. Like - like ‘running a f-f-fever’ too warm. Are you alright?”

“Eh, I’ll live. I went on a wilderness walk today and might have gotten a little bit soaked through.”

“M-might have?”

“Okay, I definitely got soaked. I fell into a marshy bit.”

“Swatch.” It was completely dark in the room, and Spamton’s voice was firm now. “Why were you in - in a marshy bit?”

“Looking for pussy willows?”

“Pussy willows.” The small man sighed. “Well, that - that explains the v-v-vases all over the living room.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Swatch leaned in for another kiss. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

“I’d say it was because I m-missed you, but really it was b-b-b-because it’s supposed t-to rain tomorrow and Eos didn’t - didn’t want me to - to risk his precious record albums on the tr-train, so he drove me b-back here..”  Spamton anticipated Swatch’s next question.”And n-no, he didn’t just round-trip it back to - to Purchase. The f-family has a c-condo on the Upper East Side.”

“Indeed. Why am I not surprised.” They yawned, their hands wandering over their partner’s body. They commented groggily, “You poor thing. You seem to have lost your clothes somewhere between here and the front door.  Let me warm you up.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Mmmmmm.”

MONDAY NIGHT, THE FOURTH OF APRIL

Julius Dyer opened the apartment door with one hand before either Catechu or Indigo could dig out their keys.  With the other hand, he clasped a fat black cat to his chest and shoulder.

“Conquered without a fight, huh? It’s good of you to have taken Endora in until I get settled.” T.M. grinned at the twins’ dad from where she stood just behind them, a pastry box in her hands. The tall man moved back from the doorway so he could let his sons and adopted niece in.

“Girl, this kitty is keener on sports than half the folks I work with. She’s my ESPN buddy, isn’t that right, Endy?”

The cat nuzzled Julius at the sound of her nickname, and Catto smirked at the sight. “You gonna get her a little Knicks bandanna, Dad?”

“Sure thing I am.  And maybe a Mets blanket.” Julius led everyone into the living room and let Endora the Third hop out of his hold onto the couch. “Soon as she learns not to paw at the scrolly thing on the television.”

“It’s called a ticker, Dad.” Indo wrapped an arm over his father’s shoulder and steered him towards the kitchen, saying, “When’s dinner, what’s for dinner, and can I help?”

“Desiree’s home in an hour, dinner is chicken and rice casserole, and I don’t gotta be asked twice to have you do some of the chopping.”

T.M. put the box on the kitchen island, rubbed her stomach happily, and then grabbed Catto's hand. “C’mon, big fella. Let’s see how much of my stuff is downstairs in storage so I know what I have to deal with next month when I move, wherever I move.”

Catto followed her to the elevator, mock-groaning. “And I’ll bet you’re betting on me and my bro carrying it all, six flights of stairs in some walkup.”

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmaybe.”

“Good thing you’re my sis.”

Later, as dinner was winding down, Desiree was the first to bring up rental possibilities for T.M. Ticking the points off on her fingers, she said, “There’s co-living sites, furnished rooms, and there’s apartments.  I can do a referral for you for Cohabs up in Harlem, if you want.”

“Ugh Sure, I’d have a private room and I wouldn’t have to worry about furniture, but it would be like living in a cage unless I wanted to socialize with twenty-three roommates. I did enough of that in the dorms with GiGi and her entourage. And isn’t Cohabs just for short-term remote work dweebs?”

“I think the acceptable term nowadays is ‘digital nomad’, honey. At least that’s what our office calls them. You’re right though, I can’t see it as a long-term solution for you.”

“Where does that leave me, though?”

An unspoken conversation had apparently taken place behind T.M.’s back, because Catto and Indo swooped in to grab everyone’s empty plates, and Julius, an apron wrapped around his middle, was making shooing motions. “Go talk shop, Dez, we’ve got this.”

His wife laughed as she got up from the table. “C’mon, Tab- I mean, Therese, we can finish this in the den.”

T.M. followed her, waggling her fingers at the three men and tossing the words, “Don’t eat all the crumb cake I brought, save some for us when we’re done” over her shoulder.

After half an hour of discussing the salary that T.M. would be getting at WNYC, her expected expenses for commuting on the subway, clothing, and food, Desiree went over some of the current listings her agency had for furnished and unfurnished apartments they had on file.  The results were grim, to say the least.

They both reluctantly agreed that the only real choices that fit T.M.’s budget were either studios in Kingsbridge near the college, which would be a long commute at the best of times, or a shared apartment in downtown Manhattan, with all the risks involved in living with strangers.

“Swatch isn’t going to have it any easier, you know,” Desiree pointed out. 

“I do know, even with their higher pay. And Swatch isn’t as, shall we say, gregarious, as your boys are. I don’t see Swatch wanting roommates.”

“Not even the man Swatch is dating?”

T.M. flinched, and hoped against hope that Desiree hadn’t seen her flinch.

No such luck. The older woman sighed, then seemed to make up her mind as to what to say.

“I know I have no real right to butt in, but I think of you as being one of my kids, especially with how useless your mama is.  And a little bird told me that you’re seeing Swatch’s boyfriend on the side—”

“It’s not on the side!  Swatch knows all about it. And they’re alright with it.”

To her credit, Desiree visibly was giving some thought to the implications of that remark and didn’t just rush in with a condemning reply. She did draw in a few deep breaths, and then softly asked, “Honey, are you being safe?”

T.M. knew exactly what was being asked, and something in her chest ached.  This was the mother she should have had.  This was the kind of talk she should have been able to have with her own mother. Sitting in an apartment right above the one where she used to live, it felt like miles and decades between here and now and her old pre-college life.

She couldn’t help the waver in her voice when she answered, “Yes, Desiree, I’m being safe. I’ve been on birth control for years, and I’m not having what you’d think of as sex right now anyway.” Her attempt at her usual grin faltered as she added, “Gave it up for Lent.”

She was reassured when the other woman gave a snort and snarked back at her, “That isn’t what I asked, Dr. Ruth.” 

“Really.” T.M. looked her adopted aunt straight in the eyes. “We’re just having fun. No strings.”

Desiree closed her laptop and turned in her chair, holding her arms out to T.M. “C’mere. If I can’t stop you from breaking your own heart by pretending you don't have one, I can at least give you a hug.”

WEDNESDAY NIGHT, THE SIXTH OF APRIL

Timing is everything , Spamton thought to himself as he blew his nose for what felt like the thousandth time.

Swatch’s “wilderness trek” and wet feet had resulted in Swatch having one - ONE! - day of sniffles, and then they were as right as rain, whereas Spamton was still completely congested and wheezing. He figured that navigating trains and subways had given his system enough of a petri dish that Swatch’s cold had knocked him out harder than it had Swatch.  He’d missed three days of classes, had called out of his radio show last night, and had reluctantly canceled the “dancing” part of the upcoming dance marathon on Saturday, although he fully intended to make up the amount of the monetary pledges he’d gathered out of his own pocket.

There was no way Spamton was missing out on the DJing part of the marathon, though. He’d laid his hands on a Daft Punk cosplay helmet; the visor was big enough that he could wear eyewear under it. Between the helmet, his pink and yellow shades behind the tinted charcoal glass visor, and the vocoder, DJ Dreamweaver’s identity could stay a secret.

He sighed, thinking of the lost opportunities to cut a metaphorical rug with either Trez or Swatch. Much to Spamton's surprise, Swatch had signed up for two separate hours of dancing, times to be determined. Unlike the fierce competition for pledges that had been flaring for weeks between Trez and Leroux as they hit all the local businesses in Kingsbridge, Swatch was being quietly sanguine by raising money in their old Queens neighborhood through the members of their aunt and uncle’s church parish.

And speaking of church, Spamton had to talk to his siblings about the verbal invitation for Easter weekend that he had gotten from Indigo yesterday,  passed along from Indo's parents. Apparently the Easter morning sunrise service at Rockaway Beach was an annual thing for all the Dyers and their extended family.

For the Addisons, Easter as an ecclesiastical thing had gotten less and less important over the years since their parents' death; they really only went to church as a family on Christmas Eve.  But Spamton could still remember some of the High Masses and midnight Easter Vigil services from when he was very, very young. The organ music, the chanting in Latin, the candlelight had all stuck in his head as something dreamy and marvelous, but had faded with time.

Indo had mentioned that Catto's girlfriend Kendra had also been invited, so this probably wasn't a setup for Spamton to be getting the shovel talk.

Maybe not.

Probably not.

His nose started running again, and with a sigh, he reached for another tissue.

THURSDAY NIGHT, THE SEVENTH OF APRIL

He finished decanting the liquid into the final two mason jars.  Once the boiled fruit cooled, the jars could be refrigerated until Saturday morning.

Kirov had put two of his roommates to work to help him cut up cherries, plums, and peaches. He had wheedled his floor’s RA into letting him use the kitchen in the RA suite to make kompot for the Seeds of Peace festival.

His study group for Doctor Hashimoto's history class were going to be manning a stall there. The chilled fruit drink, a reminder of his childhood, was going to be his contribution to solicit donations.  He'd also gone down by subway last weekend and had splurged on twelve bottles of Monastery Kvass with Black Currant from a Ukrainian grocery store in the East Village.

There was one more ingredient, of course. He had handled processing the berries himself, and would add their juice later, at the event itself.

The finishing touch.  A taste of home.

This was turning into an expensive exercise, if the cost of the mason jars he’d ordered from Amazon were added in.

But it was for a good cause.

Supposedly.

Kirov had very complicated feelings about the political situation in Eastern Europe, but they all came down to the firm belief that he no longer could claim Russia or Chechnya as his home. He wanted to be American.

American men could love other American men, after all.

And so what if he'd been unlucky in love so far? He was going to find someone to love, no matter who he had to push aside to do it.

In the meantime, he was going to do the American thing and help raise money for the oppressed.

FRIDAY NIGHT, THE EIGHTH OF APRIL

"It is time for sleep, mine prince, and time to giveth the MP3 player a rest. We will all listen to some lovely music tomorrow." "Are you gonna dance?"

"Yes, but thou willst not get to watch unless you sleepeth."

"Okay."  Lance was more than half asleep by this point, and let Leroux pull the covers up to his chin without any further protest.  "This is going to be the best birthday ever. Night, lesser dad. Love you."

"I love you too, my son. When thou wakest, thou wilt be..."

"Five!"

GiGi leaned over and kissed Lance on top of the head with a loud "Mwah!" sound. She said in a singsong voice, "Sleep Tight, Do Not Let The Computer Bus Bite!"

Lance giggled and slipped into dreamland as the grownups tiptoed from the room.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, THE TENTH OF APRIL

FOOD POISONING INCIDENT AT LOCAL FESTIVAL

Four Hospitalized, Dozens Sickened During Fundraiser For Ukraine; Norovirus Suspected

Youngest Victim, Aged 5, In Fair Condition