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Tenna was in a bad mood. That much was obvious.
He had stormed through the door (later than scheduled), and immediately started barking something at the first set of employees he set eyes on, which happened to be a group of gossiping pippins. They immediately froze up, and then scattered. It was unclear if they had actually set out to what they were supposed to do, or just wanted to get as far away from their unhappy boss as fast as possible. At this, Tenna huffed, straightened his tie, and rest his fingers to the side of his head, tuning into the line of communication to Mike’s room.
“Mike?” There was a clear sense of agitation in his voice. He didn’t wait for a response, “Get me a cup of coffee. Fast. And make it strong.”
The ‘Mike’ in question, had been sitting in the control room watching this scene play out from the start. He was not looking forward to the day ahead. Tenna was needy enough on a good day, but like this? He was a handful. More than a handful. And Battat only had so many hands. He took a breath, relaxed his shoulders, pressed the button on the microphone in front of him, and spoke in the most calm, least tense, ‘Mike’ voice he could muster,
“On it, Tenna! One hot, strong, coffee comin’ your way, stat!"
“Good. As long as you can get it to me before I go on set, everything will be just peachy.”
The way Tenna spoke that last word made it incredibly obvious to Battat that he was desperately trying to convince himself that “peachy” was a state he could achieve today. The line of communication was cut, and Battat watched as Tenna spoke to someone off-camera through a very forced smile.
“There you are. I was getting worried for a moment.”
‘Mike’ had appeared at Tenna’s feet, holding out a gigantic ‘to-go’ cup as far as his arm could reach. Of course, relative to Tenna’s height, that was not very far.
“Hey, no need to get worried about me leavin’ ya hanging Tenna! I’ll always be by your side, yeah?”
Tenna bent over so he could pick the cup out of Mike’s hand. It had looked comically huge in Mike’s grasp, but fairly average in Tenna’s.
“Yeah, yeah…” Tenna took a swig of coffee, seeming to immediately become more relaxed, “Sorry, I don’t doubt you, it’s just been a frantic morning… Thank you, Mike. I’m glad I can count on you.”
Mike brought the extended arm back to sheepishly rub at the back of his head,
“Heh, don’t mention it! Hey, break a leg out there, you got this. I’ll be supportin’ ya from behind the scenes.”
Tenna smiled slightly, nodded, and turned away, taking another sip of coffee and muttering You got this… to himself. Mike took this as his sign to leave, turning on his heel and sauntering back to the control room, mentally preparing to make today as problem-free as possible.
There seemed to be a problem.
It wasn’t unusual, especially on a day like this, for Tenna to be a bit fidgety. But this was just ridiculous.
Everything had started out fine, he bounded onto stage absolutely coursing with energy and confidence. Clearly the coffee had given him a major mood boost. For a moment, Battat had the ignorance to think maybe today wouldn’t be so bad.
That optimism didn’t last, though. After the opening segment, things began to steadily slide downhill.
It began with him missing cues, not anything blatantly obvious, just a few slip-ups. A few jokes delivered a beat too late. Like his attention had taken a rapid turn in a different direction. Luckily, the audience seemed none-the-wiser. But Battat had seen Tenna perform hundreds of times, and he knew something was off.
And then he noticed the restlessness. Tenna was bouncing his foot impatiently, checking his watch, and he kept sneaking glances to the wings of the stage, like he had somewhere else to be! What, did he want to go home or something? This was his job, and he seemed to enjoy it, he was fine a few minutes ago, what was with the sudden cold feet?
At first, Battat thought this was an effect of the coffee, but Tenna wasn’t a stranger to guzzling the stuff before performing, and it always seemed to translate into a sort of manic energy that actually enhanced his performances, not this. This was different.
This strange behaviour continued. His attention seemed to worsen, progressing from barely noticeable slip-ups to completely-spacing-out-and-forgetting-to-speak levels of bad. The restlessness turned to constant readjusting of his clothes, as if every aspect of his costume had suddenly started to constrict him. And he would not stop moving. He was an animated guy, sure! But his movements were stiff, uncoordinated, nothing like they should be.
What the hell was wrong with him?!
It was only after frustratedly watching Tenna cross and un-cross his legs 7 times within a minute that it clicked.
It was the coffee. Just not in the way Battat had initially assumed.
Oh.
Having come to the realisation that his boss really needed to pee, badly enough that it was negatively affecting the production of the show, his apparent discomfort made a lot more sense. But why now? Why today? To his memory, this had never happened before. Sure, it wasn’t uncommon to see him rushing off to relieve himself during intermission, but he had never let it show that he needed to go. Especially on air.
Did... Did he forget to use the bathroom before he went on or something?
Battat shuddered. His irritation and confusion transforming into a weird, uncomfortable sense of second-hand embarrassment.
He had seen many sides of Tenna, his double-life allowed for that. But seeing him like this? A fish-out-of-water desperately flopping under a spotlight? This was a level of vulnerability and embarrassment Battat was sure no-one was meant to see. Not him. Not Mike. And not the audience, who must’ve caught onto something at this point.
But it’s not like he could do anything about it. Every show was planned out to a T, including the breaks, he wasn’t just going to call for intermission out of nowhere!
...So he continued to watch. It was his job, after all.
Now that he was aware of what was going on, it seemed so incredibly obvious. Tenna was bent at the waist and practically squirming in his seat, constantly switching between bouncing, crossing, and fanning his legs. When he had a free hand, it would drift down to his knee and he would grip it so hard Battat could see the fabric on his pants bunch. He could only assume Tenna did that to quell the urge to hold something else.
Battat’s face suddenly grew hot. It might’ve been even worse than he’d thought.
He continued to observe his boss border on humiliating himself for the next few minutes. Despite how embarrassed it made him feel, he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. It was like watching a car crash in slow-motion.
And then something happened.
Tenna froze. fully, completely froze. He then let out a strangled sort of noise, that he forced into a laugh, and then spoke in a loud, horribly uneven voice,
“Ha ha! Woah! Looks like I lost track of time! Mike! It’s Intermission Time!!!”
Battat jumped at the mention of his name. It was not, in fact, ‘Intermission Time’. It was 5 minutes from. But the urgency in which Tenna said the phrase made something twist in Battat’s gut.
He really couldn’t wait 5 more minutes.
Battat slammed the “Intermission” button on the console, and watched on the screen as Tenna unceremoniously stumbled out of his chair and off stage.
His gaze followed Tenna through the different camera feeds that monitored the Theatre. He had shoved a hand in his pocket and was speed-walking (emphasis on the speed, Battat had never seen someone walk so fast before), his tailcoats flapping behind him. Battat caught a glimpse of his face, his screen displayed multiple sweat-drop-graphics, and he was gnawing on his bottom lip with his sharp teeth.
The last Battat saw, was a flash of red disappearing behind the hastily opened door of the closest bathroom.
And that was it. He thought, for about a second, until he became very aware of the sound of someone fumbling with a lock. Accompanied by fast, heavy breaths.
Tenna had left the communication line open.
It was custom, while he was doing a show, to keep the “Mike Line” open at all times. It operated on a different system to the “On Air” audio that played through the console room, to account for any situation where Mike might not be in the console room. Of course, this communication line was usually turned off again during intermission. But that was done manually. And Tenna, in his rush, had forgotten to.
Of course, Battat could turn it off himself. His eyes drifted down to the button that did exactly that.
The fumbling of the lock had stopped, and it had been replaced by something else. Rustling. Clinking. What Battat could only assume was the sound of Tenna undoing that obnoxious belt of his.
“Oh come on you stupid thing!”
Or, struggling to do so, it seemed.
Battat’s gaze snapped back to the stagnant footage of that door. The rustling continued for a few more seconds, accompanied by various noises of frustration. Until Tenna’s breath hitched, and the noise ceased for a short moment,
“Please for the love of-” He interrupted himself with a terse, outward breath, “This can’t happen. Pull yourself together Tenna.”
The clinking of metal resumed, but slower. Clumsier. Like he was using one hand.
“You’re not going to-” He interrupted himself with a gasp, and a soft “Oh no-”
The clinking stopped again, replaced by a whine.
“No- No no no-” a single, strained sob, and then in an extremely quiet, squeaky voice, “I-I can’t-”
Silence. And then the seemingly deafening sound of liquid hitting tile.
Battat froze, eyes widening. His hand had been covering his mouth in… What he would like to call contemplation for the past minute, and his jaw was clenched so tightly he worried he would crack a tooth.
He must be losing it. There was no way.
The splattering continued for an absurdly long time, and Battat could hear Tenna’s laboured breathing over it.
He did not move. He stared at that damn screen until the noise stopped. There was a sniffle, a sad sort of shuffle. And then,
“M-Mike?”
Battat jolted, his blood ran cold. Tenna knew. Tenna knew he had been sitting here listening to him… piss himself. What the hell had he been thinking!? Why didn’t he press that button!? Now Tenna was going to think Mike was some sort of… pervert! That wasn’t right! Oh God. It was over. The gig was up. He’d been busted.
“Are- are you there?”
His freak-out was cut short by Tenna’s voice. It sounded so… quiet. Tentative. Embarrassed. He wasn’t calling him out. He was asking for him.
He needed Mike.
Battat suddenly sprung into action, straightening up. He was Mike now. Tenna needed him. And whatever it was that he needed, he was going to help with. He took a deep breath, and pressed the button to talk.
“Tenna! I’m always here, at your service!” His voice wavered slightly, and he cringed at himself. Not now. Please do not screw up now.
“Oh thank goodness you’re here!” Tenna seemed to brighten up considerably, and Battat sighed in relief. Off-mic, of course.
“What do ya need? Saw you run off stage earlier, everything alright?”
...There was a pause, a little bit of shuffling, and then Tenna responded, sounding immediately more dejected again,
“I… It’s... embarrassing…”
“Hey, I’m an old pal, you can trust me. Whatever it is? I wont judge. You know that.”
Tenna was silent for a while, pondering on how to word it, before ultimately deciding to ignore the subject entirely,
“Listen, could you… just bring me a change of clothes?” A short pause, and then, more quietly, “Shoes, um, included.”
Mike didn’t miss a beat,
“Sure thing, Tenna! And you want these delivered to…?”
Of course, Battat knew the answer, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to slip up here. Tenna responded sheepishly,
“Ah. Um... The bathroom. In the Green Room.”
Mike knocked on the stall door, stood at an awkward angle so that he didn’t get his shoes wet from the puddle that spread out underneath it.
“Tenna, it’s Mike. Here with the stuff. Ya gotta open the door if ya want it”
Tenna held in a breath,
“Can’t you just… leave it? On the counter? I… don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Ya think I’m gonna laugh at you or somethin’?”
There was a sniffle from behind the door. Mike sighed,
“Listen, Tenna, what happened to you could happen to anyone. You’re a busy guy. Accidents are bound to happen. All I want is for you to let me help you, yeah?”
A beat of silence, some shuffling, and then the sound of a lock turning. The door opened.
Tenna stood, shorter than usual (but still towering over Mike), in that ridiculously large puddle. He had taken off his tailcoat (Luckily, it seemed unharmed. It would be a pain to explain this to the dry-cleaners) and belt, which were hanging on the hooks on the back of the stall door, his shirt was un-tucked, his head was hung downwards and his screen was dim. He was soaked.
“There we go, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
Tenna shifted around in his puddle, not meeting Mike’s gaze,
“So you don’t… hate me?”
“Hate you? For this? You’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that if ya want me to hate you! Now come out here so we can get you fixed up.”