headlining | FUTUROLOGY IC INBOX

[Words still aren't happening. Mettaton's obviously transfixed, fingers following the lines of magical ink on almost bluish skin. His hair is gorgeous, almost moving with a wind of its own, like whips of smoke from a burnt out match. The light from his eyes glow like the plants in Waterfall, bright and blue, far more than anything should be in the darkness.

And those teeth...

Say something, Mettaton. You're an actor. You're a writer and a musician and a star: you have words. You use your words for money literally every day of your life. You exist to say and sing and act out words. Use your words.]

Your face is good. [Kill him.]

[Well, now.]

[Keats can't help but let out another laugh at that. There's something so precious about how honestly awed Mettaton is that it makes a kind of warmth spread through Keats' chest. He should feel vulnerable right now, like he's baring part of his soul to someone he's taken a gamble on trusting, but he doesn't.]

[He's glad for that.]

You know what's good about this form? I'm stronger. [He says, feeling the opportunity to be just a bit boastful - the spotlight is on him, maybe it's good to revel in it like Mettaton does instead of shirking it like he would instinctively do. Being like this does make it easy - Keats the journalist is grumpy, willing to avoid contact, ready to dispense snarky commentary from a good distance away, Keats the...whatever he is...is ready for action, uncaring of whatever the Netherworld or anything throws at him.]

[It makes him wonder why he's been so afraid to be like this, if he feels like he could take on the world and win.]

Ha, I could probably lift you up like you were nothing but a couple of grapes.

[...oh, there are more tattoos...! The ink winds down the side of his neck and onto the front of his chest, swirling into larger patterns. Mettaton's already trailing his hand across them, his fingers growing warmer the longer he admires them. Tattoos in general are such a foreign concept Underground. Monsters already have their own markings and many of them don't have skin the way humans do. Mettaton, himself, has never had skin. Seeing ink against it is new and breathtaking. It's...

"I could probably lift you up like you were nothi-"

The words barely have time to process before Mettaton wraps his arms around the other man's neck and throws himself into his arms. If Keats don't think fast, him and several tons of metal are taking a trip to Floorville, current population: pain.]

[Keats was somehow expecting it, He saw it coming. And thank whatever god that exists that he's honestly incredibly sturdy - this is a form that not even Folklores themselves can completely knock over.]

[He luckily reacts fast, bending his knees and only staggering back a few steps as he manages to catch Mettaton as the robot leaps into his arms.]

H-hey now! [Mettaton is still rather heavy, but with all this power it's not incredibly difficult to hold him up. It's a bit like he's a wrestler holding up a large barbell - he can't hold up Mettaton forever, but he can manage it for now.]

Warn me before you do that, alright? [He clicks his tongue, like a scolding parent.] Honestly, you're too eager for your own good.

[He's not even listening. His eyes have already found the vanity mirror so he can admire this for himself. Don't they look so perfect? Like a couple in the middle of some dramatic moment or a romantic dance? No one has ever been able to lift him up before. He's always been too heavy and cumbersome and

His hands have gone to his face. It doesn't do a lot to hide the series of muffled giggles erupting from him.

...just in case he never gets to do this again, he's gently sticking out a leg. Pose.]

[Someone's particularly happy about this. Keats follows Mettaton's gaze. A mirror. He actually almost doesn't recognize himself. It's not like he's had the time to pause and stare at his own reflection while beating out the Id from a horde of Folks. And so, for the first time in a very long time, Keats stares at himself. It's a bit like seeing a vaguely familiar stranger on the street. Like, somewhere deep down, he knows this, this is him, and yet there's something totally and completely alien about it. The white hair, the tattoos, his body - it makes his mouth open slightly as he just looks over it all.]

[He was embarrassed to think about it before (because really, going almost half naked isn't exactly a comforting situation), but now, he doesn't know what to feel. A part of him is more comfortable than he's ever felt in his life, and that fact terrifies him. This is just another form, something magical, it's not like it's what he should always look like...right?]

I guess you haven't been carried around like this before, huh? [Because he recognizes that Mettaton is, well, incredibly heavy. He doubts people could carry him around like this even if they wanted to. He stares down at the robot, a smile playing across his lips.] I guess the carrier becomes the carried, now.

Sweetheart, if the world was just and fair, my feet would never be touching the ground. I would live in a royal carriage that loyal servants would carry while I lay back and eat grapes. [God, he's so pretty when he isn't standing. Mettaton's eyes still haven't left the mirror, watching his own legs flex back and forth in someone else's grip. It's entrancing. He looks so light.

So. Human.

There's a pain in his core, knowing this isn't real. Keats is just under a magical spell. Mettaton's... just a robot. The mirror's reflecting back some idealized version of reality where he finally gets to be weak and vulnerable and human, but that isn't real.

He wiggles loose, putting himself back onto solid ground with a heavy thunk. Well. That was nice, at least.

Sigh.]

Thanks for the show, honeysuckle.

[It's slightly bittersweet. It's wonderful, being trusted (even if that trust comes from the single truth that Mettaton is so determined to stick his nose into other people's business that it'd be more of a hassle to NOT trust him). At the same time, it's just another reminder of what he isn't. He isn't Keats. He can't just magically transform into something else; no matter what Mettaton does, he's always cold and metal. He doesn't get stronger. He doesn't become a handsome, mythical prince with flowing white hair and glowing blue eyes. He stays metal.

Yeah. It was nice to pretend.

Like at the mall, Mettaton leans in and gently presses his lips near the other man's mouth. Near, not on.

He's already heading toward the door.]

There's an idea. [He says - coming out of anyone else that idea would be made fun of, but Keats is already so used to Mettaton's exaggerated egocentric dreams that it's kind of wrapped back into being charming. He watches as Mettaton shifts in his grip, but before he can say anything, Mettaton is already making himself come back down to solid ground.]

[There's a pang in Keats' chest when he does so. He had scoffed at the idea of being some kind of Guardian, but he had to admit, to hold someone in his arms like that, to be something large and wild and powerful enough to protect them...it's nice. It's very nice.]

[But Mettaton is leaving. Keats blinks in surprise as Mettaton kisses him and starts to go, and Keats, without thinking, reaches forward to grab his wrist.]

Hey. Mettaton- [He starts and stops, awkwardly releasing his grip. His eyebrows are arched up in concern.]

...Are you alright?

[He lets out a huff. Of course, he half expects Mettaton to just brush him off, to say something flippant and leave. But then again, Mettaton clearly had gained some kind of experience he never had. Was it guilt? Worry? Something else? Mettaton is not himself, Keats knows that for sure. Something is going on.]

[...]

[He never has really asked how Mettaton has been doing all that much before, has he...?]

If something is going on, Mettaton, then... [He's bad at this. He knows he is. But he doesn't like this kind of vague ending, where he shows something as deep as this to the other and the other seems vaguely upset by something he can't understand. So even though he's terrible at expressing himself, he is genuinely, sincerely concerned.]

You can tell me. It's okay.

[It's not that he felt the hand. It's that the grip pulled him back mid-stride, calling his attention to the fact that it was there in the first place. Keats lets go and Mettaton looks at his own wrist, flexing his hand and fingers.

There's a question he doesn't hear often.]

...Ha. [He reaches up, tapping Keats on his nose.] You do have a heart.

Of course I'm alright, sweetheart. I'm just a robot. Need a bit of charge, is all.

I mean it. I do.

[He grumbles at the tap to his nose, glowing eyes narrowing. He doesn't know what to do. Maybe he's overthinking things. Maybe he's seeing something that isn't there. But this is too abrupt to be comfortable.]

[He lets out a sigh, folding his arms.]

I just don't think something as mundane as a low charge would make you sound upset.

Edited (i can word) 2017-04-14 16:35 (UTC)

Well, when you're made of metal, I'll be sure to ask what you think.

[What the hell is this sudden caring? People don't ask what Mettaton's problems are unless they're mad at him about them. Keats doesn't ask questions like this. That's fine. It's expected. He's a star - he exists in his own universe where the only problems he has are whether or not he looks good in whatever he's wearing. He's shallow. There's nothing behind the curtain. It's okay.

...

He knows the hair swaying in front of his eyes means he's shaking his head, but he doesn't remember telling himself to do that.] Really. I have fame. I have a beautiful body and legions of devoted fans. I have you. There's nothing in the world that could be wrong.

[Okay, now that last phrase is really, really off. People don't ever make general sweeping statements like that, because there actually is a lot in the world that's wrong. People are selfish and cruel and try to hurt and manipulate others, nobody can just stand back and pretend everything is sunshine and rainbows. Anyone who does so is either preferably ignoring the truth or a complete idiot, in Keats' opinion. Really, it sounds an awful lot like...]

[Denial.]

[What a funny word.]

Is that so?

[Mettaton comes off as a flamboyant egotistical celebrity. He delights in attention. And now, he's running away after gaining only a couple of minutes of it? It doesn't make sense. It's like a notable sweet eater taking a couple of bites from a cake on a large table of candies and pastries and leaving the rest alone.]

[It's not logical.]

You're running away from something I can tell you liked very much. Makes one wonder why you'd deny yourself a thing like that.

[This shouldn't be making him as upset as this is. It's a stupid conversation about a mistake that started because Mettaton can't keep himself from wanting to know every stupid little thing about human culture. He wanted to know more about Keats and his ridiculous mystery. He didn't need the investigation turned on himself.

It brings a spike of defensiveness in him, his eyes narrowing despite the cheery smile on his face. It's like dealing with Zenyatta all over again, though Keats clearly doesn't have the insight to put together anything meaningful like the robot could.]

Hm...! [Mettaton crosses an arm over his chest, the other going to his face in an exaggerated thinking pose.] That sounds like a fun riddle!! Might be the same reason someone refuses to admit they were enjoying a movie when they spent the entire run-time watching it through a mirror and crying. [Yeah. He saw that. He took notes about it.] Giselle and Robert dance to a song about the futility of their love, someone's eyes glaze over with tears and anger at being emotionally compromised... Sigh!!

How about this: I'll admit I'm running away from something once you do. [He pauses. Just for a moment. He already knows the answer.] No? Then I guess you're just seeing things, [the name rolls out of his speakers, angry and bitter,] Herve.

Wait, what? W-what does it have to do with me?!

[...Because he's a hypocrite.]

[That's what Mettaton is trying to say. That he can't call him out because he's been doing the same thing himself. Mettaton runs. Keats runs. They just keep running and not looking back.]

[Has Mettaton been running all this time? He's throwing out these harsh words, like daggers, and Keats almost feels some pathetic sense of victory, because this kind of reaction is just confirming his previous suspicion. He's a reporter. He's found out information that has opened up a new branch of the case. Mettaton, the celebrity, a being who thrives in the spotlight, is insecure. (But is it fair, to think of him like a case to be opened, investigated, and closed? Mettaton isn't a case, he's...not.) Nobody would react this badly if they didn't feel vulnerable.]

[Keats should know. He's done it himself.]

[That last word makes him wince, like that single solitary word has caused him more damage than anything else. A part of him, especially in this state, wants to yell, to roar, to destroy things, to just get rid of the problem and just move on to the next thing. He stares down at his hands. They're shaking. They're not his hands, they're grey-skinned and big and bandaged and they are also his hands, they belong to him, this is him, and he doesn't know what to think. It feels like a lot of thoughts are colliding at once at full speed in his brain. Somehow, he almost wants to go back to the transformation.]

[Somehow, that's less painful.]

Maybe I am.

[He clenches his hands into fists. His voice is very quiet as he repeats the words to himself.]

...Maybe I am.

[If there's a sense of sadistic victory at watching the other man flinch over his words, it doesn't stick with Mettaton long. It sticks in the first place, though. There's a righteousness about being right, about calling a twist far before the movie ends. He knows that name is a weak-spot. He knows there's denial and pain laced into that name, into the magic, into this transformation, for one reason or another. It feels good to not be the one feeling bad.

...for a moment. Keats' hands are shaking, like he has to keep himself from smashing Mettaton flat. Is that what that is? Is it rage? Betrayal? Are there just too many emotions flowing through his system? Mettaton wouldn't know. His own body doesn't act like that.

...

His own hands find his arms, pulling himself into a spiteful, halfhearted embrace.]

Maybe I am. [Keats isn't going to explain. Mettaton doesn't see why he'd have to.]

Are we happy now?

Edited (what happened to that sentence) 2017-04-14 18:03 (UTC)

[He can't help it - he lets out a laugh at that, though it's not a happy one. It's just an "oh, that's the way things are" kind of laugh.]

Is this what we're going to do, then? Stand here and refuse to show each other our cards?

[Like some kind of Mexican standoff, like in the movies. They're pointing guns at each other and refusing to put them down until the other one does so first. They're both threatened, vulnerable. Putting the guns down means that they won't hurt each other, but how are they sure? How can they take the chance that the other won't shoot them in the head when they lower their own weapon?]

[Though...Keats has been showing him card after card, lowering his weapon an inch, a couple inches, over and over again. Here's my abilities. Here's my name. Here's what I was investigating. Look, here's what I look like when I transform. I'm trusting you because I have the hope you won't use it against me.]

[But Mettaton? He looks at him and realizes, suddenly, that he doesn't know much at all about the robot that's standing across from him.]

[Mettaton has been tearing his barriers down bit by bit, but the robot man himself is still very much in shadow.]

We're not going to get anywhere like this, Mettaton. [Because they're stubborn, the both of them, unwilling to do anything but stand their ground.] Look at us. What does this do, make us feel better about ourselves?

[He sighs.]

...

What do I have to do to get you to trust me? [He feels a very constricted feeling in his chest.] Explain everything?

[Does he want to throw down his metaphorical weapons in hope of the slim chance that Mettaton won't shoot him when he's unable to protect himself?]

Because I will do it, I will try to, because maybe gaining your trust is worth doing that, but...are you ready for that?

[He stares into Mettaton's eyes, his own glowing, mouth drawn in a serious line.]

Do you want to really know me because you really do want to get to know me, or are you doing it because you're simply curious?

[Or are you doing it because you're simply curious?

His grin grows taught, projected skin paling in anger. Was Mettaton the curious one?! Yes, okay!! That's what got him into this mess in the first place! He was curious, because he's always curious, and he was bored and he was having fun! It isn't as if Keats has any higher ground!! Keats is only here because he has a crush on someone he doesn't even seem to want to know! He isn't even curious, he just wants the ATTENTION!

Mettaton's laughing. It's cold, just as someone would picture a robot to be. There's no joy in anything he's saying. This is a defense mechanism. A deflection. A way to hurt someone before they can hurt him.

Because he doesn't trust people. He trusted Blooky and they guilted him into staying non-corporeal and invisible, even if they didn't mean to. He trusted Alphys and she held his body hostage after everything he did for her. Hell, he trusted BURGERPANTS and the idiot stole from under his nose!! How is he supposed to trust Keats when everything is a secret and a challenge?!]

Oho!! Isn't that rich?! Isn't that the most delectable, sweetest of ironies that that question is coming from you?

[He's stepping forward now. He doesn't care about the size-difference. He doesn't care that the other could tear him apart at any given notice. His cloak shimmers off, leaving that angry, chrome doll that's the same height as this transformed human.]

Did you want to get to know me when you asked about my world all... two times we've spoken out of how many in the last four months? Were you trying to get to know me when you kept insulting my tastes or rolling your eyes at my interests or ignoring anything I tried to share with you? Were you trying to get to know me when you kissed me instead of sympathizing with the fact I wouldn't be able to feel it and never will? Oh!! [He laughs, sharp and humorlessly, and slaps a hand against the side of his face. Duh!] Oh no, silly me. You must have been trying to get to know me when you asked about my career or my hobbies or why I do what I do or showed any amount of passing interest in me even when it didn't benefit you!

[You're terrible. Why do I torment myself constantly trying to figure you out when we're both just after what little attention we can get?]

...You don't want me.

[Every sentence is like a thorn, digging into him, going deeper. He had been annoyed before - how come Mettaton hasn't shared as much with me as I have with him - but now Mettaton's words change that to a horrifying self realization - he didn't share because YOU didn't ask. It was him all along, wasn't it?]

[Keats just stares at him for a long moment after his tirade is done.]

...I do.

[He says, finally, with a sigh.]

I've only shown this - [He gestures at himself.] - to one other person in ALASTAIR, and that was to a person that was going to kill me. It was for protection. I didn't do it here to protect myself, but to show you what it was like because you wanted it. It's incredibly painful, you know. I could've just said no.

[He just feels like he's been gutted. He stares at Mettaton and he almost wants to be mad at him. To yell at him. To argue, to hiss, to spit, to prove he's right, to give into goading.]

[But he can't.]

[...Isn't that sad?]

I went to your movie party. I went shopping with you. I don't like those things. But I gave it a chance, because it was you. Because I liked you. And I did enjoy myself, didn't I tell you as much after you found me walking around.

[He glances aside. He doesn't know what to say. His heart pounds within his ears, and he has half a wish to be anywhere rather than here, staring at that cruel expression on Mettaton's face.]

You're right, though. I haven't asked about you very much at all. I don't know about you as much as you know about me. That night, I thought kissing would make you feel better that night, because I was drunk and didn't know any better and didn't think it would hurt you instead. I've been sharing things with you as if that's all that mattered. And I just...I did you wrong, Mettaton.

[He did himself wrong. He wants to curl up, to just pretend this isn't happening. Denial isn't going to solve this though. Running away won't solve this. He's face to face with a robot that is rightfully angry, and he doesn't know what to do or say to solve it except just say how he feels and hope for the best.]

But...right now, I asked if you were alright because you seemed upset and...that doesn't benefit me. I did it because I didn't want to see you worried. Is that selfish of me to not want to see you anything but happy...?

[He finally finds the courage to stare back into Mettaton's eyes with his own.]

I've just been messing up everything as I go along, haven't I?

[Yes.

It's so easy to say. Yes, it's your fault. Yes, I'm blaming you. His mouth starts the process of syncing the word to the sound about to leave his speakers, but... it doesn't come.

Mettaton's tired. Keats knows he hurt him and is genuinely sorry. That's more than most people would ever do. Have ever done.

The anger finally deflates into some sort of calm defeat. He can't goad this man into a fight. He wouldn't be able to win it, anyway.]

No. [At the very least, there's one thing he has to correct.] You want Mettaton. You want shiny and alluring and glamorous and joyful. You want a celebrity. An image. You want someone silly and shallow and adoring, someone that will always shower his fans in glitter and affection. Someone that will always tell that you're stunning and worth it even when you're NOT.

You don't want me. [His lights of his eyes dim, words trailing out of his speakers that have never rung aloud before now.] I don't want me...

[Ha. Haha... The cloak comes back up just as his hands go to his face. He shakes his fingers through his hair, squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes air he doesn't need.

Finally:]

Can't we just forget this? [His hands fold back to his side and he's smiling, but his voice is desperate. That's pathetic. Why doesn't he have better control of himself? If he gets closer, like he does now, and gingerly places his hands on the other's chest, like he's whispering sweet nothings, no one on earth would notice.] I'll stop asking you questions, alright? I'll stop digging into business that isn't mine and we can keep pretending we aren't just using one another for the attention. Let's just... pretend.

Please?

[I don't want me.]

[There it is. Even robots can be made for self-loathing, it seems.]

[Keats opens his mouth and closes it. He doesn't know what to say. To compliment Mettaton would seem empty. To confirm it would only make Mettaton feel worse. He's been here countless times before, and he knows that this is a feeling that you can't really fix with a few words. You can't erase years of this in a single instance.]

[But still, he decides he'll say something. No large statements here - he knows those will just fall flat - but he won't be silent:]

Well, I don't know about you, but I don't know many celebrities who take care of lost children, or host movies nights for their friends, or rant about The Little Mermaid, or find tweed jackets for certain reporters, or go out on their own to find out what a sleepwalking journalist is saying in his sleep.

[Mettaton steps forward, and Keats reaches out to grasp him by the shoulders, trying to catch Mettaton's eyes. Using one another for the attention. Maybe they are. Maybe this is just shallow. Maybe they're both just selfish, and needy, and they just found the perfect sucker to befriend to provide them what they need.]

[Keats isn't sure, anymore. He wants to think the contrary. He wants to believe that this is something more. He really really does, but how can he, when he hears things like this?]

[Goodness, they're both disasters, aren't they?]

If that's what you want. You can ask me questions, alright? But it's your decision. [He says, with a sigh.] Either way...I'm here for you. I'll try my best to be here for you. Just say the word.

[A pause.]

I promise.

Edited 2017-04-14 22:05 (UTC)

[This stubborn...

His head collapses into Keats' shoulder as he laughs helplessly. Really? Really? Still?

When he lifts his head, a hand comes with it. Briefly, he caresses the intricate tattoo on the other's cheek.]

You're sweet...

[He can't stay here. He needs to be alone or surrounded by people who have no idea what's going on or- something. He's pulling away again.]

I'll keep it in mind, Mr. Guardian. [The acting switch is flipped back on. He's smiling and charming and, as Keats now knows, without a shadow of a doubt, entirely fake.] If you don't mind...? [Mettaton nods his head towards the hands on his shoulders.]

[Keats nods, removing his hands with a bit of reluctance as he steps back, giving Mettaton his space.]

Alright. [He's probably about to leave, again. That's fine. They're both exhausted. They both have a lot to think about, here.]

Take care of yourself, Mettaton. [He says, with a faint hint of a smile.] It was good seeing you.

[Even despite...the whole fight thing.]

Edited 2017-04-14 22:41 (UTC)

[Ha.]

'course it was, darling. I'm me. [Wink.

Now that Mettaton's free, he is, in fact, leaving. He doesn't make a move to look over his shoulder until he's halfway out the door.

...

Yeah. He needs to get out of here.

Bye, Keatsy.]

[And there he goes.]

[Just like that, he's gone.]

[Keats lets out an exhausted huff as he moves to the bed to sit on the edge of it, leaning forward as he buries his face in his hands. That was...terrible. He still feels kind of sick to his stomach from the whole thing. He kind of has the urge to just curl up and just try not to think about what had happened. As he drags his hands down his face with a groan, he can feel the cloth of the bandages on his hand against his cheek.]

[Oh. He's still in this form, huh?]

[He looks down at his hands. Honestly, this is probably the longest he's ever been like this. Back where he came from, Transcension only lasted for a few minutes or so until all his energy had been used up. Here, he was able to activate it without going all the way. He flexes his fingers, twisting himself to look at his reflection in the vanity mirror.]

[Goodness, he looks monstrous, what with those teeth and glowing eyes. Almost comical too, with how big he is compared to the bed frame. He shouldn't keep this going. Luckily, the transformation back is much easier - magic wafts out of him as he shrinks with a sharp gasp, his hair darkening back to its mousy brown color and his coat changing back swiftly to his usual purple trenchcoat. He stares back at the mirror. It's blurry, but it's now his familiar reflection again. Which feels...strange. For a moment, it feels like what he just was was the original, and this is just another form he's shifted over to...]

[He shakes his head. He can't think of that kind of nonsense. He reaches into his coat pocket...and his fingers meet air. He frowns, checking his other coat pocket. Nothing. He stands up to pat over his coat and pants. It's not here.]

[Wait, where did he-?]

[Oh...oh no.]

Mettaton! [He's going to rush for the door to hopefully catch the robot, but whoops! He's already gone.]

Oh, damn it all...!

[What a great way to end such a tumultuous event. SO GREAT.]

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