Dial T for Tenna (PART 10)
Summary: Patch watches Tenna perform from backstage, helping steady him through the show, and... gets slighly wet afterwards. (not in THAT way.)
Five minutes before the show starts. That’s when you slipped backstage, like you promised him you would. The air was already vibrating with the kind of nervous energy only live productions can summon, the kind that feels half-electric and half-chaotic. It smelled faintly of stage dust, warm metal, and the sharp tang of too many employees being stressed to their limits.
Your footsteps felt awkwardly loud against the scuffed floor as you ducked past a pile of coiled cables and half-empty water bottles left lying around by harried workers. You were still replaying that moment from earlier — his fluster, the way his antennas had jittered helplessly under your hand when you’d dared to pat his head. You hadn’t meant it to be such a loaded gesture, and yet it lingered in your chest like a guilty little ember, refusing to burn out.
“Queue card misprints!” someone barked from across the room. Another voice snapped back: “Then reprint ‘em, what do you think I’m doing?” Clipboards slapped against palms, Pippins scurried in all directions like ants whose nest had just been kicked open. A camera crane whined overhead as its joints tested themselves with jerky precision, and a lighting rig spat a sudden bright flare that left your vision briefly spotted. It was an organized mess, but still a mess, and you realized with a faint, ironic smile that you were probably the calmest person in the building.
Tenna stood at the very center of the storm like some kind of immovable anchor, though the way Pippins buzzed and tugged around him made him look less like a celebrity and more like a maypole caught in a festival dance. His blazer was pulled taut as one Pippin yanked at the seams, smoothing wrinkles that weren’t there. One darted dangerously close to his antennae with a soft brush, fluffing them like prized peacock feathers, while yet another polished his screen until it reflected the floodlights back in a sharp, glassy glare.
The absurdity nearly pulled a laugh from you. He didn’t even have time to protest — he just stood there, exuding that half-ready, half-impatient aura of someone who had long ago learned to let the Pippins fuss until they got it out of their system.
And yet… despite it all, there was something about him in that moment. His posture was different than usual — taller, steadier, shoulders squared in a way that made the swarm look more like attendants orbiting a star. The aura slid into place over him like a mask, his performer-self unfurling, wrapping around him like armor.
And then his screen turned.
For a heartbeat, everything slowed. The glowing faceplate angled toward you, and you swore the entire chaos dimmed in the background, as though the Pippins’ chatter and clattering equipment had been muffled beneath water. He froze — just for a fraction of a second — and though he tried to hold the mask, a telltale flicker of pink rushed across his screen, betraying him.
But Tenna recovered fast, faster than you’d expected. That wide, theatrical grin flashed into place like a curtain whipping open, antennas flicking upward in crisp, practiced confidence. He raised a hand in a perfectly showy little wave, the kind that was halfway between a stage bow and a cheeky hello.
Against your better judgment, your stomach flipped. Heat crept into your face before you could stop it, and you cursed yourself silently. Professional, you reminded yourself. Professional. You weren’t here to get mushy over one smile, no matter how much it made your chest tighten. He was your job. Your responsibility. Your friend.
And still, you smiled. Small, but real. And you lifted your hand, giving him a quick wave in return, trying to make it look casual, light, like it didn’t matter.
The mask faltered again — just slightly. His grin softened at the edges, antennas twitching with something quieter, something unspoken. But before you could read it, the Pippins surged forward in a wave, tugging at his sleeves, nudging him toward the stage curtain with frantic little shouts of countdowns. He was swallowed back into the stream of motion, and just like that, he was gone, pulled toward the blinding lights waiting beyond the velvet drapes.
You exhaled, shoulders loosening even though your chest still felt tight. Around you, the backstage chaos resumed its fever pitch, as though that brief pause had never happened. But you knew better.
Because now, no matter how hard you tried to remind yourself of your role — the professional boundaries, the necessity of distance — that look, that flicker of pink, that stupid little wave… it was already carved into your memory. And you still had the entire show left to watch.
You slipped further along the backstage corridor until the bustle thinned, trading frantic footsteps and clipped shouts for the heavy fabric of the main curtain. The space just behind it was surprisingly still, like the eye of a storm. Here, only the muffled rumble of the audience seeped through, low and restless, like the sea waiting to break against the shore.
You found a narrow spot where the curtain parted just enough to offer a view without exposing you. From here, the stage looked strangely vast, even empty, its floor washed in dim amber light while technicians darted about for last-minute checks. Set pieces loomed in shadow like silent giants waiting their cue, and somewhere overhead a spotlight flicked on and off as its handler adjusted the beam.
Your pulse quickened despite yourself. You’d watched shows before — of course you had — but always from the safety of the audience, never from this angle. Backstage was different. The anticipation pressed closer, heavier, like a held breath stretching across the whole building. The murmurs of the crowd rose and fell in waves, restless, impatient. That sound alone was enough to make your skin prickle.
And then, inevitably, your thoughts drifted back to him. To Tenna.
You pictured him in that swarm just minutes earlier — the tugging hands, the endless chatter, his screen briefly betraying him before he covered it with his grin. That image clung to you, replaying in the dim quiet. The pat from earlier, his fluster. His little wave. Too many little moments stacking on top of one another, until they carried a weight you weren’t sure you wanted to measure.
Movement caught your eye.
A familiar glow slid into the gap between the curtains: a faint blue light at first, then the fuller shine of his screen as Tenna leaned just slightly forward, peeking at the audience. His antennas twitched faintly, betraying nerves he’d never admit out loud.
You didn’t mean to hold your breath, but you did.
His gaze skimmed the crowd, his screen flickering faint shades in rapid succession as he counted rows, scanned faces, measured the distance between stage and spotlight. And then — somehow, impossibly — his head tilted, the glass face angling toward the curtain. Toward you.
The moment stretched, sharp and quiet.
When his screen caught you standing there, the glow shifted — a wash of pink, subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders, which had been taut and squared like a soldier’s, eased. The line of his stance softened, his antennas dipping slightly forward in something almost… human. He exhaled, a faint hum escaping him, visible even from where you stood.
For just that flicker of time, he wasn’t the performer, wasn’t the storm center or the star. He was just… Tenna. And somehow, your presence had been enough to ground him.
Your chest tightened. But it wasn’t from nerves, not exactly. Not admiration, either — at least, not only that. It was something else, something deeper and messier, something that made you want to step forward, tug the curtain wider, and tell him that he wasn’t alone in any of this.
But the moment passed as quickly as it came. He straightened, screen smoothing back to its signature showman’s glow, grin in place like nothing had cracked. One last twitch of his antennas and he turned away, squaring himself to the stage once again.
You stayed rooted where you were, hidden in the wings, pulse hammering in your ears louder than the rising swell of the audience. You could hear them now, a ripple of clapping, voices layered over each other in an indistinct roar, waiting for the show to begin.
And as the curtains shivered under the first tug of the stagehands, you couldn’t stop yourself from pressing your hand gently against the fabric, like maybe — just maybe — it was enough to bridge the distance between you.
The house lights dimmed all at once, plunging the stage into a heavy hush. The crowd fell quiet with it, a ripple of silence moving across the room until even the shuffling and coughing ebbed. A low hum built from the speakers, a thrumming buzz that rolled up your spine and set your pulse racing.
“Here he is—say it with him, folks!”
The voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere, reverberating through the rafters.
“Mister Ant Teeennaaaa’s… TV Tiiiiiiime!”
The audience exploded on cue. Cheers, whistles, applause like a wave crashing down all at once. And bursting through the curtain came Tenna.
He was bigger than before—literally. His frame stretched a full head taller, antennae snapping upright with kinetic sharpness. The glow of his screen flared white, bursting into rainbow accents that pulsed in rhythm with the music that blasted into life. Every step he took radiated confidence, his coat sweeping with theatrical precision, every motion choreographed without looking rehearsed.
And suddenly, the man you’d been sharing quiet, awkward moments with backstage was gone. In his place stood the showman, larger than life, feeding on the roar of the crowd like it was air itself.
“HELLLOOO, LADIES AND GENTLE-GERMS!” Tenna’s voice boomed, perfectly modulated, warm and teasing all at once. “Welcome back to the only show where the questions don’t matter, the prizes make no sense, and the host is too handsome for television licensing standards!”
The audience roared again. You felt your mouth twitch despite yourself. Smooth. Charming. Ridiculous. But god, it worked.
You pressed further against the side curtain, half-hidden, unable to tear your eyes away.
Tenna glided across the stage like he owned it (he kind of did…), antennae quivering with an energy that was almost contagious. He cracked jokes between breaths, pointing at audience members, bouncing off their reactions with split-second timing that made laughter ripple through the theater in waves.
“And our first victim—ahem, I mean, contestant of the night!” he announced, spinning dramatically toward someone in the crowd, who scampered nervously into the spotlight. “Step right up! Don’t be shy, we already checked the trapdoor mechanisms twice today!”
The crowd howled. The contestant squeaked something inaudible, but Tenna swept them up effortlessly, guiding them into the rhythm of the show. The quiz began.
The questions bounced from absurd to deceptively tricky.
“What’s the best type of TV?” Tenna boomed, spinning theatrically with one antenna flicking sharply. “Is it… the flat-screen ones, the OLEDs, plasma… or—the CRTs?”
The contestant squinted at the options, confused. All four literally said “CRT.” After a beat, they stammered, “…CRT?”
“YES! INDEEEED!” Tenna’s screen exploded with bright pink and white sparks, antennae bouncing as if the room itself had agreed. “Nothing beats the classic! Nothing! You see, contestant, the soul is in the cathode!”
Tenna clapped his hands theatrically, spinning in a tiny circle before pointing at the contestant with a grin on his screen. “And now—WHO’S YOUR FAAAAVORITE HOST?”
The contestant blinked. “Um… Mr. Tenna!”
“THAT’S WHAT I LIKE TO HEAR!” Tenna’s screen flared bright pink and white, his antennae bouncing like they had a mind of t heir own. He threw his arms wide, as if the very universe had confirmed the answer for him.
The crowd erupted again. You couldn’t help but laugh under your breath.
But as the game rolled on, you started noticing it. The little cracks in his performance.
When he turned his head too far from the audience, you caught the flicker—his screen flashing black for half a second before smoothing to its confident glow. His antennas twitched, sharp, restless, betraying nerves that his grin could never show.
And every so often, when the applause peaked and the lights caught him at just the right angle—he’d glance toward the wings. Toward you.
The first time, you thought it was an accident. But the second time, when your eyes met, there was no mistaking it. The tiniest pause in his words, the faintest softening in his stance. His screen steadied, haze dissolving into pure white confidence again.
Like you were his reset button.
Your stomach twisted at the thought, heat curling low in your chest. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to stay still, reminding yourself: professional.
“Next question!” Tenna announced, voice booming, antennae bouncing with mock severity. “What do you call it when you drop your toast, and it lands butter-side down?”
The contestant stammered, “Uh… bad luck?”
“BAD LUCK?” Tenna’s screen flared with colorful static as confetti cannons burst overhead. “That’s CORRECT, folks! BAD LUCK IT IS!”
The contestant yelped as confetti rained down on them like a blizzard, the crowd shrieking with laughter. Tenna spread his arms wide, basking in the absurdity as though someone had just solved world hunger.
You shook your head, biting back a laugh. He was ridiculous. He was magnetic. He was exhausting. And yet—when he turned away, just for a breath, you saw it again. That flicker. That searching glance.
And it hit you with a force you weren’t ready for: this wasn’t just a role you filled off-stage. You were anchoring him even here, in the middle of his kingdom, at the height of his power.
That realization lodged somewhere deep, leaving you torn between pride and a weight you couldn’t yet name.
On stage, Tenna spun back toward his audience, his voice booming with renewed vigor. “And that’s only the first round, folks! If you thought that was exciting, wait until you see what I’ve got in store for the lightning round—don’t blink, or you’ll miss the fireworks!”
The crowd screamed. The lights flared. The show rolled on.
And you stayed rooted in the wings, heartbeat out of sync with the music, watching him shine and fracture and shine again.
The lights dimmed for a brief intermission, a pulse of calm slicing through the chaos of the show. You watched from the wings as the Pippins whisked through the stage like a hive gone mad, cue cards clattering, wires snaking across the floor, and spotlights shifting with frantic precision.
Tenna darted offstage. His coat tails flicked as he paced, long strides laced with anxious energy. Every movement buzzed with nervous electricity; his antennas twitched so rapidly they almost blurred. Pippins swarmed him, tugging at the hem of his coat, fluffing his antennas with exaggerated reverence, shoving cue cards at him as though the papers contained the secrets of the universe. One Pippin even polished his screen with a tiny cloth, nodding seriously as if nothing could be more important.
Through it all, amidst the controlled chaos, Tenna’s screen tilted slightly—just the barest fraction of a gesture—but enough to catch your attention. Don’t leave, it seemed to say.
You stepped closer, letting the hum of backstage noise fade into the background. “You’re killing it out there,” you murmured, voice low and steady, meant only for him.
For a moment, he froze. His antennae jerked straight up, hands clenching at his sides. “KILLING?! I—I’m not even armed!” His voice pitched into a squeak of panic before a slow realization spread across his face. “…Oh. You meant… performing well.” His screen flared faint pink, static flickering like a heartbeat. He exhaled sharply, a whirring hiss escaping as if the gesture of understanding overloaded his system for just a second.
You moved closer, keeping your tone calm and grounding, and adjusted the tie at his collar once more. Purely professional, of course. Fingers brushing lightly over fabric, smoothing it into place. Tenna’s stiff posture softened almost imperceptibly under your touch. His shoulders lowered, just slightly, as though the weight of the stage, the audience, and all those flashing lights could be momentarily shared.
“Better?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
Tenna blinked—well, his screen flickered briefly—and his antennae twitched in a way that almost resembled a nod. “…Yeah,” he managed, voice tight but steadier, almost grinning. “Much… better.”
The Pippins didn’t notice the exchange, lost in their own frenzy, and the quiet moment stretched just long enough for Tenna to gather himself. His screen shifted from pink haze back toward the usual white, the fluster dissolving but leaving a soft residue of vulnerability only you could detect.
You straightened back, stepping aside but keeping your gaze on him. Tenna exhaled again, this one slower, deliberate, and the tiniest twitch of a smile curved at the corner of his mouth. He looked… ready. Or as ready as he’d ever be in the middle of this madness.
“Thank you.” he muttered under his breath, almost lost in the background buzz. Not to the Pippins, not to the crowd, just to you.
“Anytime.” you replied softly.
The bell for the intermission cut through the backstage hum, signaling the show’s imminent return. Tenna squared his shoulders, antennae flicking upward with practiced flourish, and in the next heartbeat, he was off again—racing toward the stage with that larger-than-life energy. But you noticed: even as he vanished behind the curtain, the slightest flick of his screen toward the wings lingered just for you.
The lights shifted, narrowing into a single, searing spotlight. The air seemed to pulse with expectation; even from the wings, you could feel it vibrating in your chest. The final round had begun. Tenna stood center stage, taller than ever, his screen a dazzling white.
“Ladies! Gentle-Germs! And not to forget about the viewers at home! Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to challenge ME!” His voice boomed, smooth but edged with excitement. Questions came rapid-fire, bouncing from contestant to contestant, silly ones, tricky ones, absurd ones that seemed tailor-made to trip someone up.
From your spot backstage, you could see the slight stutter of his fingers, the micro-flickers along the edges of his screen, the subtle twitch of his antennas. He was running hot—pushing himself beyond the showman mask—but he didn’t collapse. And in that moment, you willed him silently: you got this. You’ve got this, Tenna.
The final question approached. Tenna’s gaze shot sideways, the corner of his screen tilting just enough to catch you in the wings. You nodded, a small, steady smile. It was enough.
He exhaled, a low whirring sigh that seemed to drain some of the tension from his frame. Then, as if flipping a switch, he delivered the line flawlessly, his voice crisp, commanding, flawless. The audience erupted. Thunderous applause, cheers, a wave of energy that washed the stage in a tidal roar.
Confetti cannons fired, glittering shards tumbling through the lights like tiny fireworks. The contestant who had faced Tenna’s frenzy looked stunned but triumphant, clutching their small victory prize. Chocolate Chewy Roll-Um’s.
And there he stood. Arms spread wide, soaking in every cheer, every clap, every hoot of excitement. His antennae twitched in time with the confetti swirling around him, but for just a single, fleeting second, they curved downward, not in performance, not in flair—just a quiet, subtle relief.
Even amid the spectacle, amid the confetti and lights and roaring applause, Tenna’s eyes—or at least his screen—found you one last time. And in that glance, all the turmoil, all the pressure, all the showmanship collapsed into a soft, steady acknowledgment: you were here. I didn’t fall apart. I did it. For both of us.
The lights shifted, narrowing into a single, searing spotlight. The air seemed to pulse with expectation; even from the wings, you could feel it vibrating in your chest. The final round had begun.
Backstage was still a whirlwind of noise—Pippins rushing past, dragging props, shouting about cue cards for the Weather Broadcast, and somewhere a speaker squealed. But amid the mess, Tenna appeared, barreling toward you, screen buzzing like it might short-circuit from excitement.
“WAS IT GOOD? BE HONEST! No—don’t be honest! LIE TO ME! Actually—wait—don’t—” His arms flailed wildly, antennae twitching like they couldn’t decide which direction to point.
“Hey,” you said, stepping closer, trying to cut through the frantic energy. “It was amazing. The crowd loved you… I loved you. Better than watching from the audience. You were… incredible.”
For a moment, everything froze. Tenna’s screen flickered,a pink glow appearing on his screen, then it softened as he exhaled. Slowly, he straightened, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. His gaze shifted to the side, away from you, blinking rapidly like he was rebooting.
You noticed the way he had stiffened, and instinctively you reached out, resting your hand lightly on his forearm. “Hey… are you alright?”
Tenna’s screen tilted toward you, static flickering faintly across the edges. “Did… you really?” he asked, voice quiet, hesitant.
“Did I really what?” you asked, confused.
“Love the show… love me?” His words stumbled out, as though saying them aloud took extra effort.
Your chest warmed, your mind doing a small flip. You hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, but you couldn’t backtrack. “Of course I did… You—you were amazing. Breathtaking, even. You do your job very well.” Your smile softened as you met his gaze.
The faint static along his screen faded slowly, replaced by a steady, gentle glow. Tenna exhaled audibly, the tension in his frame melting just a little. “Hah… well… I am made for this after all.” he said, voice light, with the faintest self-conscious chuckle.
You stayed there, hand on his forearm, watching the flustered showman you’d just seen captivate the audience. For the first time since the lights dimmed, Tenna allowed himself a quiet moment to simply… be.
You and Tenna were threading your way through the backstage maze, the hum of equipment and murmured instructions fading just slightly as you navigated around cables, folding chairs, and scattered props. You had been teasing him about one of his over-the-top gestures during the show, and the warmth of the conversation made the backstage mess feel almost bearable.
You were mid-step, smiling and gesturing as you spoke, when all at once, movement slammed into your periphery.
A Pippins came barreling around the corner like a runaway wind-up toy, glass of water clutched precariously in their hands, eyes darting frantically backward as if the universe itself were chasing them. “I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME — I’M BRINGING IT TO HIM!” the little worker shrieked. Water sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the glass, a precarious balance that made your heart skip a beat.
You froze entirely, caught mid-step, and before you could even react, the Pippins collided with you. A cold, sharp splash of water soaked the front of your shirt in a sudden, shocking wave. You jumped back instinctively, hands patting at the damp fabric as your breath caught, and for a moment, everything felt absurdly slow — the flailing Pippins, the dripping water, the sharp intake of your own surprise.
“Oh! Ehm — I didn’t see you there!” the Pippins stammered, eyes wide and panicked, almost tripping over their own feet as they tried to backpedal. They seemed completely incapable of processing that you were right there, a human wall in the path of their single-minded mission to deliver the water to their boss. “I-I’m so sorry! I—”
“It’s al—” you started, brushing ineffectively at the wet spot, trying to downplay the accident , but your words died on your lips before they could fully form. The world had narrowed to a single, palpable tension — and then his voice cut through, low, unmistakable, and entirely commanding.
“This happens again,” Tenna said, his tone smooth and playful on the surface, but the edge underneath was unmistakable, professional in its authority and unmistakably intimidating. You stiffened, realizing he was speaking to the Pippins, yet close enough that his presence loomed directly behind you, the heat of his frame brushing against your back. “And you’ll be on the next show. I’ve always wanted to try our dunk tank, don’t you? Hah-hah-hah…” His laugh echoed lightly but carried an unmistakable weight of warning.
The Pippin’s gulp echoed like a drumbeat in the hallway. “Y-yes, Boss… sorry, Boss…” they squeaked, scrambling away in a blur of panic, muttering hurried apologies as their small frame disappeared into the tangle of backstage corridors.
You stood there, soaked, blinking, trying to recompose yourself as your heart thumped in your chest. The cold water against your skin was nothing compared to the sudden, electric awareness of Tenna right behind you, his presence wrapping around the space like a physical tether you couldn’t ignore.
You were still patting at your drenched shirt when Tenna stepped forward, closing the space between you. Before you could register it, he was directly in front of you, his head tilted slightly, a faint frown tracing the edge of his screen. His antennas twitched, subtle but deliberate, scanning you like he was measuring every drip of water on your shirt.
“I’m… alright,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. Your hands brushed at the fabric, trying to make it look casual instead of shocking.
“Are you sure?” His voice was low, almost teasing, but there was that undercurrent of attention you knew too well.
“Yes,” you said, keeping your gaze steady. “Really.”
Tenna paused for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint hum of static dancing across his screen. Then he straightened, frown easing into something softer, and stepped slightly aside, giving you just enough room to breathe.
“Good,” he murmured, screen flickering faintly as if approving. “I’d hate for my liaison to be drowned before the aftershow drinks.”
You stopped fussing with the damp spot on your shirt, realizing the water had mostly soaked in or evaporated, and finally looked up at Tenna with a smirk, hands planted firmly on your hips. “Aftershow drinks? Well, well, well… making me drink on the job… you trying to get me in trouble with the higher-ups?” you teased, letting your tone linger just long enough to make it clear you weren’t entirely serious, but definitely enjoying the little spark of tension between you.
Tenna let out an amused exhale. His grin widened, sharp and mischievous, the kind of expression that made the world feel just slightly off-kilter in the best possible way. “Who said Miss Kairos has to know?” he replied, the words light, teasing, but with that undertone of sly authority you had learned to recognize.
You tilted your head, matching his grin, and extended your hand with a confident flourish, palm open and ready, like you were issuing an unspoken challenge. “I won’t tell if you won’t…” The words were casual, teasing, but the gesture was deliberate — a deal offered, and a small acknowledgment of the unspoken trust threading between you.
Tenna’s eyes drifted down to your hand, and for a bare second, the faint static across his screen flickered oddly, as if memory or thought had tugged at him from somewhere deep. There was a quiet, almost imperceptible hesitation, just enough for your pulse to spike, before he leaned forward and took your hand firmly, giving it a shake that was equal parts charm and certainty.
“Deal!” he said finally, and the word felt heavier than the laughter and banter surrounding you.
And with a final shake, your hands slid apart. Then you headed toward the green room, moving easily through the backstage maze, chatting and laughing as you went.
Notes: After-show drinks, you say?? HEH… heheheh… I wonder what could go wrong… or should I say, right?
TAGLIST: @fallendove@theilluminatidragonqueen@sacru-tainted@thefiasco-onyourblock@aroura-yuh@good-person-reblogs@driedhuman@badeggonthebeat
