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Amber flowed in a mesmerizing curl as it dropped into the cup, captivating him with shimmers of dancing colors. Ethereal, it almost seemed. Unreachable. Untouchable.
Yet as the tea splashed and waved around the cup, a meager few drops fell onto Battat’s glove.
Mike.
They fell onto Mike’s hand, seeping into the dark cotton, leaving only a distant warmth from the boiling hot liquid. Leaving only a slightly darker patch that is hard to discern by unobserving eyes (impossible to distinguish by old antennas) when it would have otherwise burned his skin. Tomorrow, he’ll wake up, and there’ll be no irritated skin. The costume will dry off, leave,
nothing to show for tonight ,
Battat shakes off the thought, briefly considering the merits of rousing the other Mikes for this instead. He can’t deal with this right now. The stuffy costume is making him irate and turning him insane. Despite the cold nights of the TV world, it’s oven-like in this thing, airless, and he’s already starting to feel distant, the suffocating heat furthering the gap between himself and reality the costume had already cracked open–
A quiet shuffle of clothes reaches his ears, and he cuts off that thought, too. It’s an unreasonable wish. Both of the others are too far away. Trying to wake them up would take forever, getting them here even longer. And Tenna might honestly shut down if Battat leaves him for longer than a second.
Putting the teapot aside, he turns and makes his way to his boss, who’s sitting by the corner stuffed with blankets and pillows Pluey likes to sprawl on, and Jongler likes to drag him into impromptu naps onto. Insistent words of youse need a break, boss and content saxophone sounds echo somewhere at the back of his mind as he looks at the figure occupying the corner that looks a whole darker, now, despite the lighting remaining exactly the same. Or maybe it’s just Tenna. Tenna, hugging his knees, head all but buried in his arms, what’s visible of his screen showing blank darkness. Or maybe it's Battat. Regardless, he brushes all of that off his mind, too, as he kneels beside Tenna, and Mike speaks.
“There you are, boss.” Voice quiet but the act strong, the layer of liveliness that never seems to fade from the persona colors his voice as he offers the cup of tea. “Something to warm ya up, calm your nerves.”
The TV doesn’t move, and Mike doesn’t sigh. He puts the cup on the floor, thinking of how to go with this. Tenna’s miserable, and he’s rarely miserable– sad, sometimes; angry, often; but rarely ever so… numb– which makes it harder to deduce what to do.
… Maybe he doesn’t need to deduce.
Taking a gamble, Battat moves to gently place his hands on Tenna’s knees. When the touch doesn’t garner a reaction, not even a twitch of antennas in acknowledgement, he pushes further, reaching out a hand. He’s shrunk, but the TV's still got a feet or three on him, causing him to practically drape himself over the other's legs.
“Can’t know what’s wrong if you don’t say it, boss…” It’s just a whisper, now, as he cups the side of the monitor. He puts the barest amount of pressure to tilt the screen up, and Tenna follows his lead.
Materializing from nothing and sliding down the blank screen, silent droplet of tears pull his gaze. Behind the mask, Battat’s breath stops.
… It’s awkward. It’s so awkward. Seeing his boss crumble silently like this– it’s not the first time he’s seen him cry. Tenna commits fully to every thing he does. Crocodile and real tears isn’t anything new to Battat, nor Mike. But accompanying them is always a strong performance, a dramatic flare, liveliness that was– taken for granted, apparently. He didn’t think it’d affect him this much, its absence.
Subconsciously, almost instinctively, his hand moves to brush away the tears. Even through the glove Battat can feel the static grazing his skin, a sensation that teeters him back into reality as Tenna tilts his head. Without facial features, it’s impossible to know what is going on inside the CRT’s head, so Battat waits. For Tenna to speak, maybe. Or for Tenna to push him away, more likely. He simply waits, as always, for Tenna.
Tenna shifts. Battat doesn’t quite register what that before he’s falling, the legs he has been putting his entire weight onto suddenly parting. He all but crashes onto a solid– metal, solid METAL– chest, barely managing to let out a strangled gasp before two arms wrap around him.
It takes a moment for Battat’s brain to kick back into action. He’s too flust– CAUGHT OFF GUARD by the the proximity the arms around him the sudden movement to properly process what is happening. Some stray thoughts like he is colder than I thought and we're too close rattle around his empty mind, before like a switch being flipped, common sense returns to him. And then it's all pure panic.
The head, he thinks, trying to shift out of Tenna’s grasp to check the head of the costume, because it might’ve detached, and it can’t detach, Tenna CAN’T know, Tenna will, know, and he’s going to—
All thoughts grind to a halt as the arms around him tighten, and for the first time that night, Tenna speaks.
“Don’t leave.”
In a voice so low, quieter than a whisper, and deeply somber. Battat pauses. Has Tenna ever… sounded like that? Sounded so… wretched.
Tenna's arms wrap tighter around him, and Battat can't think. Even though Tenna must no doubt be feeling the empty space inside the costume his body can't fill, even if the position could be showing glimpses of white plastic and green fabric underneath the gray and black cotton, even though there's a lump just beneath his throat that burns, Battat can't think.
"Don't leave me, Mike."
The lump grows heavier.
Timidly, but not unsure, arms wrap around the CRT, and Mike,
Battat.
Battat holds Tenna close. Because that's not something Mike would do, right?
"I'm not going anywhere." Battat says, because that's not what Mike would say. "I won't leave you, Tenna."
Because Mike left.
Tenna chokes out a sob, and as if those words were the pressure that broke the dam, he doesn't stop. Battat holds him through every sob that wracks his body, whispers hushed assurances amidst stuttering breaths and wrecked noises, and ignores how heavy his tongue feels around the words ,ignores how every tear staining his shoulder feels like boiling water seeping into his skin.
At the back of his mind, there's a poisonous voice. It's a lie, says the miserable voice, adding onto the gnawing pit in his chest. It's all a lie, wrapping around his neck, as words struggle to tear out of his throat. But it's wrong. It's not a lie.
Not to Battat.
So he's not Mike, so what? He's still here. Surely that must mean something. Sure it must mean something if it's him comforting Tenna, and not Mike. Surely it must mean something if it's him that's there for Tenna, and not Mike. Surely he must mean something.
Even if he's donning Mike's face to do all those things,
Even if he'd never be allowed to do this without donning Mike's identity,
Even if Tenna will only ever want Mike—
Brushing all of that off his mind, Battat holds Tenna.
Forgotten by the pair, the tea grows cold.