Keats (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
headlining) wrote2015-12-03 11:35 pm
headlining) wrote2015-12-03 11:35 pmEntry tags:
FUTUROLOGY IC INBOX
username: UNKNOWNREALMS | ✉ ☏📷 |
headlining) wrote2015-12-03 11:35 pm
username: UNKNOWNREALMS | ✉ ☏📷 |
no subject
Instead...]
Come back to bed, [he repeats, invitingly drawing his fingers back and forth against cold, white sheets. He crosses his legs together and sits, plaintive and exhausted. He is exhausted. This is exhausting. He misses when the hardest thing he had to contemplate was "do I want these boots in pink or black?". He hates that things have gotten this bad. He hates that someone knows how weak he is. He hates knowing just how horrifying humans can really be. He hates keeping the one person who manages to love him emotionally in the dark because someone else betrayed his trust. He hates...
Breathe.
...after a quiet moment, Mettaton sprawls himself off the edge of the bed and reaches underneath it. When he props himself back up, it's with a handful of diaries - each different colors and make. Diaries he's never let Keats or anyone else touch. He dumps them onto the mattress, forcing himself to smile.
He can change this. It doesn't start with Asher or anyone else.]
I want you to talk to me.
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[But Mettaton looks so tired, and Keats' rising temper falters like a dying flame. He can't leave Mettaton alone. At least, not again, not tonight.]
[And then the diaries appear. Keats blinks at them. They're so bright, it's hard to imagine he's really seeing them.]
What are those? [He's coming back onto the bed now, crawling over so he can rest near Mettaton, picking up a diary and flipping through it.] Are these...your entries?
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Yup.
He toys at his bangs, his face turning the slightest bit darker as he makes room for the other man. He nods. Yes, they're mine. Yes, this is everything I've been hiding from you. This is every part of me I never wanted to vocalize to anyone else on the team.]
...It's a little annoying, when someone won't let you be on the same page, eh? [He nudges one book a little closer. It's dark enough that can't entirely make out the cover, but hopefully it's not one with those awful doodles.]
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[He says with a wry smile, showing Mettaton the page filled with doodles of cats and Mettaton surrounded by cats. It's adorable. God, how many other things like this was Mettaton keeping from him? This is really nothing to get concerned about...]
It can be annoying, but...well, when you fix it, things are all the more better for-
[His expression suddenly drops from its smirk down into something more serious.]
[He's just seen the word "Herve", written plainly as the light of day on a page. "I'm just Keats, okay? No one else.".]
...
Well, now, you are quite the reporter. I didn't think you'd actually record things like this.
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He pouts, cartoonishly, cheeks puffed and shoulders hunched. So he can't draw. Keats probably can't either! Mettaton has a million other talents to fall back on, it isn't as if--
...oh.
For all the times he's slunk himself out of Keats' grap tonight, Mettaton finally winds his arms around the other's chest, sliding in behind him to rest his head on Keats' shoulder. He nudges his neck, gently, with his temple, eyes averted.] That's the only time. [He never wrote anything about what Keats really is, or anything that could even be linked to it. As far as entries go, that's the only one that was just straight record-keeping.
...but it's not the most incriminating entry, either. There's worse. He knows it. And if he ever wants Keats to really, truly understand him or why he's done the things he has...]
You didn't go out to fight some poor things for their nuts again tonight, though, did you?
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[And Here Mettaton is, embracing him. Keats has to just lay there in silence for a moment, trying hard not to get emotional. They know everything about each other, and yet, they haven't left the other behind. It would be so easy. Just to up and leave because dealing with one's own problems is hard enough, let alone dealing with the problems of another.]
[But they're here. Together. Still unwilling to abandon each other.]
Oh, no. Honestly, I don't even recall what I was dreaming about. [A slight laugh and a shrug, as he puts the diary down in his lap, leaning his head down to kiss the top of Mettaton's head.] But anyways, you could use a little work on your structure here.
[A smirk and another kiss.] I'll make a good reporter out of you, yet.
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And he nuzzles himself closer, lightly and playfully thumping his boyfriend on the back of the head as a laugh worms its way out of his throat.] "He says, as if he's reported on anything his entire tenure in ALASTAIR." [See this tongue? Enjoy this tongue. It's being stuck out for you, you procrastinating fool.]
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[He pretends to be offended - honestly, he'd probably procrastinate on writing his articles if he had an entire year off to write for the darn things. He huffs, raising a finger to press at Mettaton's nose.]
Stop that. [He's raising the diary again in front of his face.] Else I'll be forced to read all of this out loud.
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Mettaton laughs, the force of it wracking his frame as he rolls himself over, leaving the two of them back to back. He reaches over his shoulder to snatch the diary out of Keats' hands and hold it above both of their heads.]
Oh, sugarplum, why didn't you ask? I can do that for you!!
"My dearest diary, I can't believe what a badly dressed dork my boyfriend is," [he mock-reads, voice high and lilting, knowing full well that it's never something he's ever written. God knows what's actually on the page - from the way Mettaton's positioned, the writing isn't right-side up.] "I've never seen him write a single thing - I believe I've been taken by a swindler. At least maybe one day, he'll learn how to make tea."
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[He's reaching for the diary himself now to yank it out of Mettaton's hands, like a kid who just wants the best toy to himself. He's grinning like a loon, though.]
Let me see- [He turns the page. It's upside down, but...he can recognize it for what it is.]
Wait, is that us? You drew us? [He elbows Mettaton, though his cheeks are slightly flushed.] Aw, would you look at it! Positively adorable.
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All at once, there's a mass of flailing limbs desperately trying to stop this onslaught of shame. Mettaton winds his legs around his boyfriend's waist, pulling him back, as his arms throw themselves over Keats' shoulders in a vain attempt to push the book out of his hands. This was a mistake! This is character assassination!!]
I CHANGED MY MIND, SHARING TIME IS OVER! YOU DO BETTER!!
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This was your idea, Mettaton! [Ack!!! He's trying to squirm out of those legs, grasping the arms to pull them away from his shoulders. He won't be kept away from the truth!!]
...Oh, what? I'm a prince to you-? [He must not drop the book, this is too good!] I'm your prince, Mettaton?
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That's it!
With a desperate heave, he wraps his arms tight around his boyfriend's chest and playfully kicks a leg out at the book.
He cannot be defeated!]
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[And ooooop, there goes the book, sailing to land on the floor. Bye bye diary. He can't get you because he's currently tied up by his boyfriend's arms right now.]
I thought you were open to sharing your darkest diary secrets! [He says, grinning as he tries to twist himself to look back at the other.] Come now, you're not going back on your promise, are you?
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[But oh, Keats has to wriggle himself to face him and Mettaton is met with a smile brighter than any star. For all his earlier blustering and joking, and even earlier not-so-quiet threats to end this, Mettaton feels like he's melting. He's warm.
Maybe Keats isn't a prince. He's rude. He's nosy and self-centered, warm feelings guarded in razor-sharp ice. He's an Adonis in shaggy clothing. He's light-brown curls framing a strong, glowing face and piercing hazel eyes.
He's the sun. And every day Mettaton feels like Icarus.
He smiles as pulls the other into a shared warmth. Closes his eyes and leans in, rests forehead against forehead. Takes in the smell of ink and tea.
...then he pushes his boyfriend onto the bed, lifts up his shirt, and blows against his stomach.]
PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT
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[He laughs out loud, feeling as if a warmth is spreading all over, throughout every inch of his skin. How could one person be this radiant? This beautiful? This astounding, in so many ways? How could Mettaton be this amazing to the point where Keats can't help but smile every time he thinks about him?]
[He's never felt more lucky in his life, to stare into the eyes of someone he loves.]
[...And then that beautiful moment is ruined by the sudden feeling of hot air blown into his stomach.]
M-Mettaton! [He chokes out, in between bouts of laughter. He's trying to shove Mettaton away, his cheeks very red.] Mettaton, please, stop, you ABSOLUTE fiend-!!!
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For a man in the middle of giving another full-grown adult a raspberry, he's sure his eyes have never been softer. It's silly, but it makes him think that maybe he's not just here to be lauded - he's here to make this one grumpy old man in particular smile and laugh.
Mettaton pulls away after one more spiteful blow and crawls into the other's space before flopping onto the bed. He rests his chin on Keats' curls and wraps his arms around him - not playfully or needy, but... to be honest, a little protectively.]
...what happened tonight wasn't your fault. [I'm sorry I took it out on you.]
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[He's fully ready to just continue on his tirade against this clearly mature action of giving his belly a raspberry, but the arms around him, those soft words, make him fall silent.]
[He pauses, before he reaches to pull Mettaton closer to him. It's strange. They've been together for a while now, and they've touched each other in so many ways, but perhaps this is really the first time that Keats has hugged Mettaton so desperately to himself. It's like he's a child, worried that if he lets go, he'll never see Mettaton again...]
...I know. [He murmurs, punctuating his words with a sigh.] I just don't want something like this to happen again.
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Keats couldn't have known Mettaton's restless nights would lead to this. He couldn't have known that the person he assumed wasn't a threat would turn around and weaponize their humanity against his human-weak boyfriend. He can't stop himself from sleepwalking. Mettaton just wanted to have control again, wanted to be angry at someone who couldn't hurt him, and Keats was a convenient target.
...He's a terrible boyfriend, isn't he?
He draws his legs in as much as he can, effectively shielding a man who doesn't need to be shielded in long limbs.] It won't, [he mutters. He promises.]
I do have a gun.
[Okay, bad joke. But it is them.]
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[He lets out a quiet snort at that - it is a bad joke, but it helps him smile, at least. He can't even think about what that man may have done to Mettaton when he was gone. Of course, it's not like he probably meant to cause Mettaton any harm, but banging on the door like that...]
[He sighs, reaching up to cup his boyfriend's cheek in his hand.]
I don't say it often enough, Mettaton, but...I'm really very lucky to have you in my life. I really am.
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[It's hard to hide your face when your hands are busy clutching desperately to another body. Mettaton stiffens at the fingers caressing his skin, at kind words rarely spoken, and...
It feels like walking out of the cold and into a warm room. Like your body adjusting to cool water and suddenly everything is perfect. Like watching snow melt in your palms.
It's easy to blame himself and feel like a burden to someone who doesn't deserve it, especially after tonight. Especially after the last few months. But Keats has the audacity to comfort him when Mettaton's the one trying to do the comforting, and he feels like he's melting.
He clutches his boyfriend tighter, vaguely hoping the man won't feel tears on his fingertips, and laughs.]
You big jerk. You're going to make me rust.
[Ugh. He can feel his core pounding somewhere in his chest. It's causing his skin to heat up, he knows it.]
...I'm lucky to have you too.