Chapter Text
Mike adjusts his bowtie. It's hard to see himself in the mirror through the foam headpiece, but he's fairly certain no part of him is visible past the costume. Though the gloves are intentionally oversized, he needed to layer two pairs of socks under the shoes, and the headpiece took some creative stabbing to fit comfortably, the suit fits very well. Hopping down from his stool, he triple-checks that his closet door, where his costume is normally stored, is shut tight. Glancing at the huge corkboard covered in clues regarding the character he's supposed to be playing, he can't read any of it with the foam over his eyes, but he's already memorized most of it, anyway.
"Hey, boss." Jongler and Pluey were playing cards in the Mike Room common area the whole time Mike performed the ol' identity swap. They'll have some time off today while he's on duty, but Pluey is ready to jump into costume if Mike needs backup. "I heard, uh, youse are s'posed to break your legs, or something? Hope it don't hurt too bad, boss. Call me if youse need a lift, yeah?"
Pluey plays an arpeggio followed by a series of tritone jumps.
"Oh. Never mind, boss, I misunderstood. Plues, didn'tcha play that with a C-natural the first time?"
"Oh, heh, thanks." Mike chuckles awkwardly.
"Not much to say today, boss? Cat Mike gotcha tongue?" Jongler's head tilts.
"Just—gotta go!" Tersely, he waves, grabs the keys to the audio booth, and rushes out the door.
It's weird to see everyone greet him so warmly while he's in costume. Normally, he's a nobody. Bad luck, even. Mostly, he gets ignored. But as Mike, he sees Elnina wave at him as he passes through the Green Room, Zappers immediately step aside to let him go wherever he likes in the studio, he raises a gloved hand in surprise as Shuttah takes his photo, and a group of Shadowguys cheers as he walks onto set. He chuckles. Mostly, it feels good, but he can't help the bitterness creeping into his mind.
He's got Mike's schedule memorized to the minute. He's by no means a strong guy, but there are a few Zappers who help him carry props, while a couple Pippins clean the quick-change area backstage. Mostly, he checks that each stage light and microphone is working correctly. He's supposed to be giving orders to the crew, but they've all worked at the studio long enough to know what to do, and if they don't, they know they shouldn't make it Mike's problem.
There's a door backstage that directly leads outside. As with all other doors in the studio, Mike's got a key. This would not be unusual, had the door existed there yesterday. He hears several crew members talking about it before he heads up to the audio booth.
He's fortunate Tenna hasn't replaced any of the audio equipment in years. Mike doesn't need to be able to read the labels on the soundboard—he's taken the damn thing apart and put it back together again on more than one occasion. He's a little less familiar with the lighting. The spotlight's obvious, but it's sort of hard to see exactly how dim or bright any of the other lights are while he's wearing the foam microphone head. But he's got a headset. Someone will tell him if he needs to change something.
Watching Tenna arrive through the studio doors tugs at his heartstrings. He wouldn't recognize him without the Mike costume. That's not speculation—it happened, just a few days ago. He's a persistent guy, though. Being up in the audio booth in costume is the best situation he can realistically be in right now. Tenna's recognition will come in time.
He's quiet during the shoot, following orders as efficiently as he can. There's only one hiccup, when Tenna asks him to adjust the Fun-O-Meter. He spends long enough trying to find the correct dial that Tenna asks whether he's fallen asleep up there. He's sweating bullets when he finally finds it. Tenna just sighs and tells Shuttah to cut and do another take.
He's completely worn out by lunchtime. He had no idea how complex Mike's job was before he thrust himself into the deep end and had to figure it out on the spot.
"Mike!" Tenna addresses him on the headset for about the nine thousandth time that day. "A hand with my costume, please! I'm coming up to the audio booth!"
Mike's blood runs cold. He knew this would come sooner or later, but he's already struggling at the helm, and doesn't feel prepared to be adjusting Tenna's costume already. But Tenna's already knocking on the door, and moments later, before Mike can even give him permission to enter, he's already coming in. Thankfully, he hadn't caved to the temptation to take the headpiece off, even while alone up here.
"Oh!" Tenna seems surprised when he sees him. That's… not a good sign at all. Did he miss something? Get the costume wrong? But Tenna's explaining himself before Mike can even decide whether or not to ask. "Sorry, Mike. I thought you might be feeling Pluey today, since I didn't hear you speaking. I guess I was wrong! Haha!"
"Ah." Mike scratches behind his neck. At least Tenna can't see him flush under pressure.
"Are you feeling okay?" Tenna asks him. It catches him off guard. Since when was Tenna ever concerned like that? "You're being… really quiet. And you were taking forever on your cues today. It's like you forgot how to adjust the 
Mike swallows. It's been a while since Tenna's been disappointed in him, but it was practically an inevitability today. Frankly, he's been doing incredible work, all things considered, but he can't say that to Tenna. "S-sorry."
"Yes, well…!" Tenna's tone and crossed arms tell Mike he's trying to hold back his frustration. "What's more important is the underlying cause, of course! What's going on, Mike? Please, tell me honestly. Maybe there's some way I could help!"
The weight in his chest feels unbearable. He's never seen Tenna like this—he's certainly not this patient or empathetic to any of the crew members backstage. Even compared to how he used to be, it's clear Tenna's trained himself how to speak to avoid losing anyone else he cares about. But Mike can't speak openly.
"[Please don't make me do this, don't make me do this…]"
Tenna's taken aback. "…Huh?"
The span of ways in which this could get worse is ant-sized and rapidly shrinking. Mike doesn't know what to say for a few seconds that feel like whole minutes.
Then Tenna breaks the silence. "MIKE! I had no idea you could SING!" He sweeps Mike off his feet effortlessly and twirls him a few times before gently setting him back down on the audio booth floor. Shocked and disoriented, Mike stumbles briefly before grabbing onto the table holding the recording equipment. "That was 
"Oh! Heh." How long has it been since Tenna—or anyone else—has praised him so highly? "Sure, boss. Whenever you like. [Oh, the things I'd do for you…]"
"Yes! Exactly like that! Keep it up!" Tenna gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up and leaves the audio booth, apparently forgetting that he wanted Mike to adjust his costume.
Mike's heart is pounding so hard, he feels dizzy. Once he can breathe again, which takes a while with the stale air instead his headpiece, he starts laughing. Apparently, Tenna really will pick up everything Mike puts down. This could work. This could actually, genuinely work.
He's much more confident when they get back to work after lunch. He's had time to get accustomed to all the controls and can keep up with Tenna's speed more easily, and he isn't quite as afraid to speak up over the headset. He keeps it brief, avoiding singing, but there's a comfort in knowing that if anyone gives him a hard time, Tenna might actually stand up for him. Frankly, he never could have anticipated that.
While he's tearing down the set at the end of the day, Tenna approaches him once again. "You know, Mike," Tenna says, "I coudn't figure out what was bothering me when I saw you earlier."
"Uh huh…" Mike forces a smile. This can't be good.
"I think I've figured it out!" Tenna strikes a pose, raising his index finger to the heavens. "It's your ass size! Your ass is looking much scrawnier than usual!"
"…What?" The tension pulling tight through him hasn't released, but a heavy dose of confusion has been lumped on top of it.
The way Tenna points directly at him makes Mike want to crawl not just out of his costume but maybe out of his skin, too. "You never ate lunch! I know your ass size can be variable, but this is SIGNIFICANTLY below average! Have you been skipping meals?"
Not on purpose. Tenna's… not wrong, exactly. Mike's just… built up his tolerance long enough to ignore the twisting, writhing sensation in his stomach, the chill in his weak limbs, and the oppressive lethargy. His tongue is moving before he can even think of what to say. "[Hunger is so heavy…]"
"I KNEW it!" Tenna's contagious energy feels like whiplash after the confession. "No wonder you seem so tired! I can't have you doing that to yourself, Mike! You're my most VALUABLE employee—no, my 
Mike's not sure his smile can get any more strained. "Th-thanks, boss. I just… [I can't afford] it."
"…Huh?" Tenna cocks his head to one side. "Oh! Haha! You're asking for a 
"No—er, well, not no," Mike quickly corrects himself. "May [I ask for your assistance]? I just need a little genorisity. Enough points to buy some [food to eat]. [Enlighten me, what's your] credit card number?"
He's sweating. This isn't going to work. He's cannonballed straight into the deep end. The prospect of a good meal has blinded him to what he's actually trying to accomplish here. Tenna's a sucker, but there's no way he's—
"Oh! Sure thing, Mike, here you go. Just bring it to my dressing room after you've bought dinner, alright?"
Tenna hands him his credit card.
Oh, this is going to be so easy. He can practically already taste it.