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Jul 18

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Fame Rub Technique

Chapter 1

[AO3 Link]

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Rating: 18+

Chapter Word Count: ~5.7k

Character(s): Small Mike (Battat), Tenna, OCs, and the rest of the TV World cast as minor reoccurring characters

Relationship(s): Small Mike/Tenna (Battenna, main ship), and additional minor background ships

Genre(s): Angst/Humor/Drama

Tags/Warnings: Porn with Plot, Dubious Consent, Smoking, Alcoholism, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Identity Issues, Sexual Tension, Antenna Play, Praise Kink, Masturbation, Scent Kink

Getting increasingly frustrated with how jaded his audience is becoming, Tenna turns to some bad habits to cope. Battat is there to work him through it, as is in the job description of being "Mike," but maybe "Mike" isn't enough for this task. After all, if he's such a big deal, why isn't he here to do his damn job?! Just who is Mike, huh?! And why does hearing Tenna say his name make Battat's heart pound and body sweat bullets until his Mike costume is soaked to the bone??? It's a mystery. -- Aka origins for how Battat went from obsessing over the identity of Mike, to slowly starting to want to be Mike. Aka "antenna massage" is absolutely just a handjob

The Green Room's quiet, casual, atmosphere comes to a temporary pause at the sound of clattering dice and a string of swears as a haphazardly dressed green pippins bursts in from the changing room; a spherical foam windscreen mask tucked under one arm, blazer unbuttoned and only half on, and shoes untied. He pants, hanging off the doorknob loosely while his eyes dart around the room in search before he sighs, straightens himself up and sticks his head into the mask. He scurries over to the bar, frantically dressing himself along the way.

"Where—!" He barely gets the word out and Ramb is already pointing the way.

"His room" is all he says without even looking up from his wiping the countertop.

He manages to sputter out a thanks between his hopping through tying a shoe before rushing off towards the exit, paying no heed to the baffled denizens of the TV World watching him fumble around the place like a lost intern.

He's late.

Never, not even before he started this weird double-life career, has Battat been late for his shift until now. A few minutes of shuteye was all it was supposed to be—and cool off from wearing layers of clothing and insulated foam—then next thing he knew, Jongler was tapping his shoulder and telling him that tonight's broadcast received not-great ratings, and Tenna is not happy.

He had brushed off their and Pluey's concern and offerings of covering for him this time between his haze and following chaotic dressing up. "He isn't goin' around yellin' at anyone this time," Jongler had tried reassuring him while he sloppily skipped buttons on his shirt, "He was just doin' that teeth grind-y thing the longer the show went on, and then stomped off without another word the moment we called it a wrap."

Barring the fact that the scene Jongler had described sounded almost worse than an outward meltdown, Battat isn't the type to shirk his duties. The boss is going to need an ear to talk off, and Battat is the best one of the three to yap right back, tell him everything he wants to hear, and cool the CRT down. A happy boss made a happy staff and all that.

That and, he is not about to miss any opportunity he can to figure out the mystery that is "Mike."

Despite his rush, Battat doesn't enter right away when he arrives outside Tenna's dressing room. Smoothing his suit down and adjusting his headpiece, he takes a deep breath, getting a feel of his character. He's Mike now. Motormouth Mike. On account of the fact that he doesn't shut up! And he's here to be at Mr. Tenna's every beck and call. Whether it be making him a coffee, or tend to his wounded pride. Whatever he needs, Mike's on the case. He feels Mike's signature lopsided grin make its way up; as natural as his second skin. Showtime!

He's greeted with the pungent smell of burning tobacco the moment he creeps in. The room is dim, only illuminated by the mirror light at Tenna's desk across the room, but the show host himself isn't there. It doesn't take long for Battat to find him lounging on the couch against the perpendicular wall; coat carelessly draped over the arm he's resting his head on. He's in the middle of a tangent, Battat realizes, none-the-wiser of his absence. Cigarette smoke trails after his animated hand gestures, making a tangled mess in the air as he speaks.

"—lly don't get what we could have been doing wrong there I-I mean we had the humor, the drama, the high stakes, and yet it was like I was performing in front of a wall!"

"Ehhh the audience just don't know what they want anymore. Ain't your fault they couldn't recognize quality content if it was served to them on a silver platter." He slides into the one-sided conversation with ease, stopping just a few strides away from the couch; just barely out of Tenna's peripheral. It's as if Mike had never left the CRT's side. "Which I will say, you already technically do."

Tenna's antennae twitch, the bobbles that make up the top wobble under their weight with the way they're dangling over the arm of the couch. He tilts his head in Battat's direction. Not enough to look at him, though. He never really looks at him or his fellow Mikes-in-disguise. Not particularly avoiding, but also not making any real attempt to acknowledge their physical presence, much to Battat's puzzlement. Even when they're in Tenna's direct line of sight, it feels more like he's looking right through them. It helps keep from having to explain why Mike looks entirely different depending on the time of day, at least. He doesn't seem to realize—or maybe care about—Mike's ability to shapeshift (something Battat has sticky-noted on his bulletin board, even, feeling that to be a pretty important detail). "Oh. Mike. You're usually chattier this time of night. I was beginning to wonder..."

"Nah, you sounded like you needed to let that out." Bullshitting, being crucial to the gambling experience, comes naturally to Battat. It helps that he's had these conversations with his boss time and time again now for quite a while at this point. He let's the praise bounce of his tongue and dive straight into Tenna's ego to metaphorically lick his wounds. "Don't let the crickets tune you out, Boss, you were fantastic like always. You never miss, really knocked it out of the park with that performance!"

Tenna doesn't respond right away, taking one last drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out; Battat notes the other two butts in the ashtray on the coffee table (as well as the fact that there is now an ashtray in here). Smoke billows out his nose as he reaches for the wine glass next to the tray (and Battat then also notes its presence, and its neighboring half-empty bottle).

"Did I?" He swirls the glass around before holding it up to his mouth, speaking into it, "Tori certainly didn't seem to think so."

And Battat watches, as he less sips the wine, and moreso knocks the whole contents of the glass back like it was a shot of whiskey; placing the empty glass back between the bottle and ashtray briskly without even glancing at the table. It all happens so fast that Battat doesn't get a chance to open his mouth when Tenna is speaking again.

"I mean, she wouldn't even look at me! She just sat there staring at her—wh-wha-what even was that thing?! That black rectangle in her hand." He scoffs. "I don't know what could be so interesting about that thing. She was just swiping at it with her thumb and..." He falters, then stuffs his hand into the crevice between his side and the backrest of the couch, digging around until he pulls out a small, rectangular box. Flicking it open, he uses his teeth to pull another cigarette out, and continues speaking around it while he paws around for his lighter. "...had the most... zoned-out, dead expression I haven't seen on anyone since the kids binge-watched a rerun marathon of that old cartoon. Was I really that bad?"

Battat frowns at the sight (and at Tenna carelessly flicking ashes onto the floor in an off-handed, tasteless, disrespect towards the cleanup crew). He's usually pointing fingers at the crew, finding one way or another to pin the blame on anyone but himself. Be it the lighting was suddenly "not done right," or they "used all the wrong soundbites" so the jokes fell flat, Battat more often than not, laid witness to some nasty, childish, undeserved tantrums. It's not like his boss to self-critique.

He almost wants to validate—scratch that, he does want to validate his boss's shift in attitude, hit him with a bit of tough love and humble the guy for once in his career, but there's a visceral fear in the unknown. Mike has never turned his back on Tenna, who's to say how he'll react to the idea of Mike of all people, being against him? His eyes linger to the cigarette between Tenna's fingers, concern gnawing at his gut. Maybe another topic, something other than tonight's show (that he completely slept through and thus would have to gamble his way through a pep talk) is what he needs.

"All that tar can't be good for you innards, sir" is the very, very smart thing he decides to say. Because the best route to having a happy boss like Tenna is to point out how self-destructive he's being, oh yes, he is known for taking that... so well! He quickly follows up with "The censors are letting you smoke and drink now?"

To his luck, Tenna pays his comment no mind. He smirks, sharp and full of teeth, biting around the rancid stick and taking a big, deep breath in an act of rebellion. It glows red, and smoke trickles out the back of his head through his vents. "None of that tonight! Tori wanted to watch that vulgar cooking show with the angry chef. One of her few guilty pleasures." A wheezy chuckle, and then, "Though, "watch" is a bit of a loaded word here, isn't it!"

His laugh—loud, boisterous, forced—ricochets off the walls with nowhere to land; no willing audience to infect. More ash sprinkles onto the floor as he smacks the front part of the couch underneath himself with a force that said he very much did not find this funny. His episode ends with weak chuckled coughs as if he's trying to prolong the pseudo-joy, like a joke that's overstayed its welcome; all buildup and no punchline. He gives the couch one last tap with the side of his fist, the cigarette now nothing more than a crinkled nub that he carelessly flicks away. Smile pinching, then dropping completely, he deflates, his antennae drooping further down with a light creak as he does. He sluggishly waves his hand at the coffee table next to him.

"Pour me another, would you, Mike." Yet as soon as he says it, he's reaching over to grab the bottle himself. But Battat is quick to act, snatching the bottle and placing it just out of reach. He watches as Tenna's hand stretches out in search for a second before giving up and dropping down. He eyeballs the bottle, daring it to move, then he looks to the glass, half-expecting it to just inexplicably be full already. But all is still, and Battat just feels like a crazy person now.

He shakes his head, ridding himself of the sudden bout of paranoia, and does as ordered. He can't go all conspiracy nut right now, not when he has a very unhappy boss to deal with. Sliding the full glass within Tenna's reach, he then backs away to the arm of the couch to give him space. Not even a little "thank you" is given and the glass is off the table again.

He cringes. This can't keep going on. He's just going to knock it back, then grab another smoke again, and continue this back-and-forth until it's time to prepare for the morning broadcast, and then they're all dealing with a hoarse and hungover superior. His teeth grind anxiously, he has to do something, say something! He's supposed to be Motormouth Mike for crying out loud. What kind of motormouth can't talk a person's problems away?! Distract him! Make him laugh! Or just start with something generic, and then let your mouth do all the talking like you always do!

"Sir, you're punishing yourself too harshly here." He starts, gesturing to the bottle and ashtray on the table. He continues while moving his hand up to rest behind the couch's arm; an instinctive maneuver, like resting a hand on a friend's shoulder in solidarity. "None of this is your fault, ya know. Whatever's goin' on in the light world is just a little—"

His hand, instead of meeting the fabric of a discarded coat, had brushed against something smooth, and Battat doesn't get a moment to process what it was because Tenna suddenly shoots up into a sitting position. Hunching over and hacking out an onslaught of wet coughs, his wine glass slips from his grasp in his hurry to cover his mouth. Battat flinches back from the shattering glass, the remaining wine splashing on the floor between the couch and table; its spread almost reaching the tip of his fine shoes. He flounders, at a loss as to what just happened and why. Tenna stays in his position, taking deep breaths after finally clearing out the liquid he inhaled. One hand grasping the top of the couch to keep himself braced, the other still hovered over his mouth before he moves it to his tie, wriggling it loose, and then carelessly tossing it on the floor with the rest of the mess. What could have possibly been spot cleaned of the speckles of red that littered the yellow tie, now lay completely ruined as it soaked the remaining puddle up.

"You touched me..." Tenna says in a whispered awe, keeping his back to Battat. "I... I didn't know you could—"

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!! I—" He slaps his hands over his mouth, though it doesn't do much, considering his mask is blocking the way. So he bites his tongue to try keep his character from breaking further, but it's a nervous wreck in his brain between the fear of upsetting Tenna, and that tiny conspiracy theorist in his brain that's clawing at its enclosure after hearing Tenna say that, an echoing mantra of "what does that mean, what does that mean!" bouncing off the walls of his head like dice in a cup. He's never touched Tenna before, none them have. It was a rule he set himself, in an attempt to study this ever elusive "Mike" that no one seems to ever see. But Tenna never gave orders that involved physical contact with Mike. Never getting a chance to see what would happen if he did.

This guy never fails to baffle the pippins's mind. First there's Tenna just doing the some of tasks he orders Mike to do, then there's the fact that sometimes things just sort of happen if Tenna or he and the gang don't do it (and it's never consistent what it is!), now there's this... allusion to the idea that Tenna doesn't even seem to think Mike is a tangible being at all, it—...what does it MEAN!!

He shakes his head. That's not what's important right now! Taking a deep breath, he wills up his personal image of Mike's laid back demeanor. He clears his throat, but his voice unfortunately still has a nervous edge to it as he says, "Sorry 'bout that boss, didn't mean to spook you. I'll watch where I put my hands next time."

"N-no, you..." Tenna moves to turn his head, but then snaps it back forward again. "It's fine, Mike."

"Did I hurt you?"

He falls back into his laying position, antennae staying pointed up, though Battat isn't sure if that's because he's still tense, or trying to avoid contact. "You just surprised me, is all. And—" his antennae bounce with emphasis "—they're very sensitive."

His brows shoot up. There's an odd weight to that statement, and a tension fills the room. A kind that, admittedly, makes his face warmer than normal under the mask, but he shoves that feeling away, deciding his analytical side is looking a little too deeply into it. He instead presses, "That's quite the reaction, though? You never seemed bothered when the Dreemurrs needed to get a better signal."

"That's the thing though!" He exclaims, splaying his arms out above him in emphasis. "The channel it... it never gets changed anymore. The cooking channel is all Tori cares about, so there's no need to search for a better signal when my antennae are already in the best position they can be in for it." Arms fall back to his stomach with a huff. "They don't rent movies, or play video games anymore. Nobody puts their hands on me for anything, I just sit there and collect dust! All Tori does now is just... point the remote at me, and then goes to do whatever. Read a book, clean the house, cook in the other room, or look at that... that thing!"

He spits the last word out with a snarl. There's a deep bitterness in his tone that makes Battat's stomach churn. His fists shake from clenching the fabric of his stained shirt so hard. The air reeks of jealousy and loneliness, and it takes a few beats for Tenna to calm down; loosening his hold and sighing dejectedly.

"Asgore's gone, Kris doesn't like TV anymore, I haven't seen Azzy in months..." He covers his face with his hands, breathing out a humorless laugh. "God, nobody will touch me, nobody will even look at me, Mike. I—I feel so..."

"We look at you, Boss." Battat retorts, unable to hide his hurt tone. He thinks of his co-workers, his friends—forgotten and lost toys and household items alike—who work tirelessly to dish out the herbs and spices to Tenna's meat and potatoes. If no one's got the boss, the crew is still there to cheer him on, and he wishes Tenna could see all the work they put into making him happy... all the work he puts into making him happy. "I'm looking at you right now."

A sharp, quiet, intake of breath, and the room is still. Tenna's fingers twitch over his face, but don't move away just yet. Battat waits patiently, letting his boss absorb the unspoken offering. It's off-script, it's not what Mike does, and not something Tenna ever seemed to think Mike could do...

But Battat isn't Mike.

"Mike," he finally starts with a whisper while his hands tentatively slide down his face, "do you think you can..."

A beat. "Lay it on me, Boss."

Silence. More seconds without any sound or movement pass, until Tenna reaches down and grabs another goddamn cigarette. That lingering—telling—tension is back full force, and then some; stringing up the request that wants to be made, and hanging it to drip with a raw yearning until it's dried into neglect.

"...Nevermind."

Battat decides that's enough. The the smell of smoke is starting to clear out, and he already has to deal with its stench from his spot between the couch cushions in the light world. Where Toriel thinks Asriel and Kris are none-the-wiser about her habits, but blowing the smoke out of a cracked window isn't going to hide the evidence. And Battat decides he'd very much like to have a clean set of lungs for longer than five minutes.

That, and he finds it so odd, that his very needy boss suddenly doesn't want to look too needy.

He gently grasps an antenna, making Tenna freeze; unlit cigarette in hand, and hovering over his mouth.

"Why don't you just put that down and relax, sir." He swirls his thumb around the ball, unable to stop his grin from returning at the shiver that wracks the CRT's body. His boss-pleasing tone comes back with a vengeance. "You're in good hands."

While Tenna puts his hand back down without a word, Battat discretely finds a nearby stack of magazines to stand on and reach Tenna's head better. With a full top-down view of his boss now, Battat gives him a once-over. Starting at the shoes dangling over the opposite arm, to the pants smudged with ash, then the hand on his red-splattered stomach, idly rolling the cigarette between his fingers. His screen is blank and unreadable, but the antennae standing ramrod straight gives away his anticipation.

He takes the rods in each hand, they jolt upon contact but he stills them between his thumbs and fingers. It's strange being able to see Tenna from this angle—almost like he's the bigger one now—and this is the closest he's ever been to the boss's head that wasn't a situation where he was condescendingly bending to the pippins's level and barking out an order. The rods have multiple segments that start thin on top, and thicken slightly as they descend down each segment, allowing them to retract in a telescoping fashion if need be. Which is odd to Battat, because he doesn't think he's ever seen Tenna retract his antennae, and it paints a rather funny image in his head with those large bobbles in the picture...

"Mike...?"

The wary tone snaps him out of his reverie. Before he can give any more impression that he's having second thoughts, he glides his fingers down to the domed base; where the metal meets plastic in their own little divots. The ball joints at the bottom allow the rods to bend and rotate in different directions, Battat finds with a few experimental maneuvers. Albeit not easily, the appendages showing their age with the way they creak and occasionally jam, making him have to put a little more force before they give in. Tenna hisses, his face staticing briefly from the interference.

Battat pauses. "Alright?"

"No—no I mean yes—um..." Tenna squirms in his seat. Battat can feel heat radiating from the back of the CRT's head. "This is a lot more overwhelming than I remember it being."

He suppresses a chuckle, unable to stop his mental praise at his past self for reading the room correctly (another one on the board for Battat being right). "Feels like there are a few kinks to work out." He says, pun intended. He casually swivels an antenna, to emphasize the stuttered movements, and totally not bask in how it makes his superior melt. Oh yes, this is most definitely more than a mere shoulder rub. "I'll help work you through it if you still want me to."

"I..." A shaky breath, then a swallow. "I would appreciate that greatly, Mike."

His hands flex around the metal involuntarily, something inside him swells at that statement. Appreciate. When has he ever gotten a thank you for all the backstage work, the errand running, the therapy sessions that he is no way qualified for?! As unfair as Tenna can be at times as a boss, Battat still cares. He wants to do good, and to know that he's doing good.

Biting his lip with a newfound focus and determination, he jerks the two antennae forward, less like he's handling some of his boss's most sensitive body parts and more like he's controlling the goddamn bulldozer from one of the sets. The loud creak that emits from the abrupt movement sounds painful, but the surprised yelp and subsequent whimper that follows are so heavenly to Battat's ears that Tenna might as well have just kissed his feet right there. Taking it as encouragement, he pulls the stalks back up and slides his fists up the length of them; pausing at a small crease halfway up one of them that he hadn't noticed before. It looks like at some point one of them had been bent in a way it wasn't supposed to, and then put back in place; not very noticeable from afar, but from as close as Battat is, he can see the antenna's permanent crook now.

A bit of pressure above it with his thumb (not in attempt to correct it more, because it would be impossible to fix that metal without the proper tools) pushing opposite the the crease's bend gives Battat quite the eye and earful. Fists clenching and twisting into the cushions and back arching, Tenna lets out a whine that makes Battat shiver and instinctively curl slightly over the boxy frame. The plastic is hot, and Tenna's screen is illuminated in a light pink hue. He straightens, hating how positively stuffy this suit is getting, the mask feels like a rough sponge around his head. Taking off the gloves sounds so good right now, for a few reasons, but he can't risk Tenna getting a glimpse of his green hands.

So he pushes the desire down, and draws his attention to the tips of the antennae. Two fat bobbles, shiny, smooth, and warm, even through his gloves he can feel it. There's a subtle, light, pulse that he can feel if he focuses on it enough; an electrical current begging for an outlet. These have to be the sweet spot, if he is to assume from Tenna's initial reactions to them getting touched. He closes his fists around the top thinnest segments, and then swirls his thumbs over the smooth surface.

"Ffffu—ahhh," Tenna manages to censor himself—a funny thing to do right now considering his position—and he tilts his head further towards Battat; letting out more keens when the antennae are pulled back down in opposite directions with stilted movements. The metal-on-metal friction creaking the old parts before suddenly it all smoothens out, as if they just needed reminding they can move in such a way.

And Battat continues this song and dance, playing it all by ear and alternating between different parts and directions that leaves Tenna in such a messy disarray with each twist and turn—each glide up or down, each brush over that dent, or thumbing over a tip—until the CRT's breath is coming out in harsh pants. His head tilts side-to-side and he grunts, gritting his teeth and letting out a frustrated groan.

Battat brings his ministrations down to a slow, repetitive stroking and asks, "whatcha need, Boss?"

Legs shaking, and hands coming up to clutch at the top of his frame, Tenna huffs. "I can't—" his screen flickers to static. Battat tilts his crooked antenna up and it clears. "I-I-I... I can't—mnh."

Battat doesn't know whether to laugh with endearment or roll his eyes at the performativeness. Even now, covered in ash and wine and making the most pay-per-view noises Battat has ever heard, he's still trying to be television's sweetheart.

"You can." He says, firm (why no, the power is not getting to his head, why do you ask?) "It's just me, Tenna. No stage, no camera, no restraints. Go ahead."

That's right, there's nobody here. Nobody to watch the TV host in all his R-rated glory. This performance has been a private one for Battat's eyes only. The thought makes him giddy. No one else gets to see Tenna like this. Not the lightners, not his fellow darkners, not even Mike.

He grits his teeth at that thought, quickening his pace. Just what does Mike do?! He can't think of a single thing, all he knows is what Mike doesn't do. Mike doesn't arrive at 11pm on the dot every night to spout praise and debrief the reported ratings, fetching coffee and snacks at a moment's notice. Mike doesn't give his insight on the latest project Tenna has been brainstorming, providing nothing but positive feedback no matter how bad some of the ideas sounded. Mike doesn't remind him of contracts that need renewing, even the ones that are at his and his coworkers' expense. He hopes Mike is watching him right now, doing everything he can't do. Soothing Tenna's bruised ego in a way that's making him shake and writhe and—

"Mike!"

—...scream his name.

There's no time for that icy reality to pour over him, though, because Tenna's massive hands have shot back to grip Battat's waist tight—fingers digging into his back so hard Battat almost fears he's gained a few more pips—and his head tilts back over the couch's arm.

And for the first time since he donned the costume—hell, since he entered this world—he feels the weight of his boss's gaze boring through his mask and locking with his own. Battat stares mesmerized at the magenta screen, at the mouth babbling a string of "Mike, Mike, Mike!" until he gapes, soundless, and Battat can't let go. Hands locking at the base of the antennae, his arms involuntarily flex, and it's hot. He can do nothing but gawk back at Tenna, throat tight and body shaking for what feels like an eternity until it just stops, with Tenna going limp and Battat's hands dropping to his sides. They somehow simultaneously burn and feel numb, twitching at the weak aftershocks, his mask is soaked with sweat and spit, making is harder to breath in while he desperately tries to take in air. His legs feel like jelly, quaking under his weight...

And he is so, so, painfully hard.

The large limbs that had been clutching him like a lifeline lay dangled over the the couch and above Tenna's head, whom had sunk back down; antennae lying completely flat, lax as can be. His screen plays static, low, and kind of soothing if Battat is being honest. The sound grounding him as he tries to slow his breathing and align with the more steady, deep, rise and fall of Tenna's chest. For a moment, Battat wonders if he had passed out, until those antennae bounce up and the snow dissipates. Limp hands clench and arms move up until Battat is caged between them while Tenna does a full body stretch, tilting his head back up and over until they're face-to-face again and Tenna is giving him a wide, upside-down grin.

"Mike," he says coyly, "why didn't you tell me you had the hands of an angel."

Battat swallows dryly, taking in the lax smile, the rosie cheeks, normally directed at an adoring crowd, now only looking at him. The praise vibrates in his head like an electrical current, buzzing around in quick pulses until it courses through his system and jolts right between his legs. He lets out a nervous laugh that he so hopes doesn't sound like a sob.

"You never asked," it comes out through a forced, strained grin. If he has a holy touch, then promote him to sainthood, too, for the self restraint it takes for him to not beg and plead his boss to touch him back.

Tenna tsks at him (fucking tsks at him!), waggling a finger in Battat's face to scold lightheartedly. "Getting cheeky with me isn't helping your case, mister! But—" he sits up, stretching his arms over his head, and then outward like he just got up from a nap "—I will forgive you this time, 'cause I feel like a million bucks!" He looks down, then recoils, nose crinkling in disgust. "Eugh, but I don't look it, huh? How embarrassing..."

Glass crunches when he stands to fruitlessly brush at the stains and smudges. Feeling is coming back to Battat's limbs, though there's still a pulsating ache in his hands (and other places), but he thinks he can manage stepping off his makeshift stool without issue if—

"Mike!"

Nevermind! He manages with a few issues, specifically the ones slipping underneath his scrambling feet from his heart leaping up to his throat at the sudden exclamation. He catches himself before he can make an embarrassing tumble, arms hooking over the couch arm with his feet now dangling inches above the ruined stack. He smiles sheepishly when Tenna turns to address him, but his boss doesn't seem to care about his fumbling. Smiling sweetly, he clasps his hands together, positively glowing.

"Do send someone here to clean this up, would you? And..." he gestures to the coffee table "throw all this stuff away for me while you're at it. Preferably out of here. I'd... I'd rather not look at it anymore."

Shaking away the somberness threatening to take hold, Tenna spins on his heel, making his way to his wardrobe with a pep in his step while he numbers off his to-do list with his fingers. "I need to change, freshen up, prepare for the morning news and order next week's broadcast schedule. Busy, busy~!"

Orders given, Battat kicks off the couch, landing unsteady, but landing nonetheless. He gathers the wine bottle, smokes and ashtray quickly, glad to have a reason to leave the room. He doesn't waste any time leaving as fast as physically possible without downright sprinting.

"Oh, and Mike?"

He almost thinks he imagined it, with how quiet it had been, but he stops just before closing the door behind him. Peering back inside, he finds Tenna with his back to him across the room, but his head turned his way; a shy smile on his face.

"Thank you."

A brisk nod is all he can muster, thankful for Tenna turning back to his tasks so he can close the door and let the rush hit him in full. Forehead rests on foam resting on the door as he just... breathes; deep, long. The seconds tick by as he counts backwards, trying to not let reality crash down on him just yet, not until he finds a more private area at least, but it's a little hard, because the only thing that wants to run through his mind right now is that he just basically gave his boss what he can only assume is the TV equivalent of a handjob.

Yeah, no, he did that. Knowingly, and happily even! Double-fisted those antennae like he was trying to get a good luck rub before a roll. Turned the most powerful man in this world into putty in his hands. He can still see it behind his eyelids: that massive body squirming to his touch, arching his back and looking him in the eye as his name comes out in a pitched chant of Mike, Mike, Mike—

Oh god.

He backs away from the door like it up and spontaneously combusted. Ash and spent cigarettes crunch between his fingers from clenching his fists so hard, and he's surprised the wine bottle doesn't relent to his iron grip. The costume is sweltering, it's so wet and gross in this thing, he can't take it anymore. A sharp turn, and he's not-sprinting away. He has things to do, and do them he must.

#happy birthday to This Fucking Thing #still surreal that i got it finished lol #did not think it would be that long. the things that TV does to me

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