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When the call came over the intercom, as it had after practically every single one of the last few shows (“Mike…c-could you come to my - ” A pop of static that might’ve been a hiccup. “ - dressing room? Please?”), they all three (well, two) groaned. Then they threw for it, as they always did. Lights, camera, action.
“Uh oh,” Jongler said, looking down at his hand. He didn’t have much of a face to speak of, but there was a frown in his voice. “Guess it’s me.”
“No, no, no, no, no!” Battat snapped. “How many times have I gotta tell you guys?! Lights beats camera beats action beats lights! It really ain’t that hard! It’s me!” He paused. That’d come out a little too triumphant. “I-I mean. Crap! It’s me! Again!”
“Again,” Jongler agreed, as Pluey shook his head sympathetically. “You got the worst luck, doncha? Hey, you wanna throw again?” He held out his hands, fist over palm. “Or I’ll just take it this time, I don’t mind.”
“N-no! No.” Battat waved his own hands. “I mean. That wouldn't be fair. And Mike’s all about fair.”
“He is? I mean, we are - I am?” The frown was back in Jongler’s voice. He glanced down at Pluey. “Now we gotta try and remember that, too?”
“Yes!” Battat snapped. “In fact, while I’m gone, why don’t you stay here, and try and memorize that? Maybe you oughta do that every time I’m gone! Motormouth Mike: all about fair!”
And then he rushed off to Mike's room and the costume he kept in pristine shape. He’d kept Tenna waiting more than long enough.
Costume on, he got a few sympathetic looks as he rushed through the studio, as he usually did when he was Mike…and a knowing one from Shuttah. Which he really could’ve done without.
Battat could hear the churn and crackle of digestion from outside the door before he pushed it open, even over the general backstage bustle. He pushed the door open, slipped through, and closed it firmly behind him again as soon as he could, cutting out the noise. Then he locked it, just in case.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” Tenna said before he even had a chance to turn around, voice strained. “I-it happened again…obviously.” There was a nervous chuckle, then a stifled belch. “Sorry. Don’t know what’s got into me lately…”
“Aw, no, boss, don’t apologize,” Battat assured as he turned around. “Big man like you’s gotta eat, right? And you’re a…” He looked up at Tenna as he approached. “Real big man.”
The thing about Tenna that’d surprised Battat so much when he first joined the studio (besides what a nice guy he was - usually) was how easily the guy swapped from one shape and size to another. He had his on-air form (a good twelve feet tall). He had his backstage form (about six feet, so he didn’t snap his antennae off on doorframes). He had those features that only slipped out on occasion (the fangs, the claws, the tail).
Right now, he was a bit of a mix of everything. Like almost always happened when his control slipped.
Thankfully, his dressing room was built to accommodate that. Very spacious, high ceilings, mix of furniture sizes. Tenna was sprawled on the couch meant to hold him at the high end of his height range, head tipped back and nose aimed at the ceiling, knees spread wide. His tail was wrapped around one thigh, plug at the end twitching weakly. His coat had been left draped over a chair, so there was nothing at all to hide where the buttons had popped off his shirt and his belt had been undone, letting his belly spill free. Both hands rested on it, claws tending the fabric of his gloves.
He looked huge tonight. Battat had to take a second just to pause and take it in, the round mountain of him; thankfully, Tenna didn’t seem to notice.
“Getting bigger,” he agreed with cheer that sounded very much forced. “Thinking you might have to let my coat out again…”
“That’s no problem,” Battat assured as he passed a discarded stack of empty TV dinners. Looked like there was some TV slop in the mix tonight, too…he’d been getting more and more of a taste for that recently. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” Somewhat self-consciously, Battat adjusted the sleeves of his own coat. “Real dab hand at sewing, me.” He put his hands on his hips, looking up at Tenna. “You wanna scoot back a little?”
“Oh, r-right, sorry…” Planting the heel of one hand on the couch cushions, Tenna shoved himself a little more upright. His gut wobbled, spilling more heavily onto his thighs, into the gap between them, and he hiccuped painfully, clapping his other hand across his mouth. About half his pixels flashed pink.
“I’m tellin’ ya, boss…” With a hand on one of Tenna’s knees, Battat boosted himself up onto the couch, and knelt between Tenna’s thighs. “Ya gotta stop apologizing. Is this or ain’t this my job?” Really, if Tenna was going to get embarrassed about anything, Battat’s first suggestion would’ve been the bedtime stories…not that he was going to stop reading them to him. “Now. Let’s get you taken care of.” Reaching out, he poked him, watched the ripple that ran through his middle as he shuddered. “Oof. You are full tonight, ain’tcha?”
“Really overdid it,” Tenna agreed in a mumble, dropping his hand from his mouth, and for the first time, Battat noticed there was also a pile of plastic trays over on the other side of the couch, which meant there was probably about twice as much in the belly in front of him as there had been last night. No wonder he looked so much bigger.
“Aw, don’t say that,” Battat soothed, and as he looked up at Tenna, easily at least three times his size, tongue hanging out from between his fangs as he panted, he felt himself pink up some under his mask. “Guy doesn’t deserve to indulge after putting on a great show?”
“Have they all been great shows?” Tenna mumbled.
“Obviously, boss, ‘cause that’s how we do it. Nothing but the best when it’s TV time. Right?”
Because of course they put on nothing but great shows. And Tenna had been indulging after every single one of them for…jeez, weeks now. Maybe even months, it was tough to tell when you measured time in seasons and practically every show had a different number of episodes that aired on different days. Tenna would come into his dressing room, and he’d sit down, and gorge himself practically stupid until he was aching with it and had to call Mike in for a belly rub…and he’d started getting kinda fat off it. Plump gut buttoned up behind coat and belt buckle, thighs on either side of Battat right now closer to him than they ever had been before, arms thicker…and Battat didn’t know why Tenna was so worried about his coat when it was the pants that were the problem. Guy’s ass was getting to be serious business. Those things were going to rip wide open the next time he sneezed.
Of course, if you asked Battat, it actually looked good on him. Like he was supposed to be heavy. That big old head on top of that slim little body - it’d never looked right, especially at full height. But he knew better than to mention that to Tenna. Or anybody else.
“In fact,” he heard himself saying, blushing so hard he was sure it was visible even outside the mask, “you could probably have a little more, if you wanted.” He reached out, and put his hands on him. Belly the size of his whole body, practically. Through his gloves, he could feel the warmth, and the static that hummed about an inch off Tenna like invisible fur, and the texture of his violet skin. Soft and velvety, rubberized. “While I do this.”
Tenna said nothing. If Battat had had a heart, it would’ve been hammering in his pips. But after a second, Tenna said slowly, “Well…I might have a dessert or two left…”
“There ya go,” Battat encouraged, and began to rub, pressing through the fat to the strained, tight stomach within. “Attaboy.”
This was normal, he reasoned as he worked, leaning into it, hearing Tenna whine softly as he worked out gas bubbles and cramps with his elbows and knuckles and the heels of his hands. Everybody liked Tenna. All the Pippins especially liked Tenna - of course they did, why wouldn’t they?!
He’d found them in the ravines they’d fallen into on the Couch Cliffs…well, a Zapper had, but Tenna had been the one to give the order to get them out and bring them into the studio, he’d given them the contracts that made sure they wouldn’t wind up stone statues, and he was a pretty great boss most of the time. Better than their king had been, that was for sure; didn’t even get that mad when they tried to sniff out his bonus zone. Why wouldn’t they work as PAs and stagehands and boom operators and whatever else they needed to be? Why wouldn’t Battat be Mike once Tenna started talking to somebody who wasn’t there? Why wouldn’t he do…this, and like it?
It was better for everybody when Tenna was happy. He liked making him happy. This obviously made him happy. And since he was the only Mike who could be trusted with the more complex tasks most of the time…
Yeah, Battat told himself, encouraged, as above him, Tenna worked his way slowly through a brownie, and slowly relaxed under his hands. Nothing at all wrong with this. And no reason to stop.