headlining | FUTUROLOGY IC INBOX

[...There's just always going to be that pain every time Keats manages to flirt back, isn't there? Mettaton's smiling, but it's tinged with resignation. He wants to kiss him. He wants to run his fingers through his hair and feel it, or actually feel the warmth of those arms around him. There's a million and one ways he can think of to distract him and Mettaton can't do a single one of them.

Mettaton pushes it away and laughs, turning his eyes downward and watching his own fingers interlace with Keats'.]

I could make you watch Les Mis again.

[And there's that feeling of something missing, because he wants to act on the urge to just embrace the other further, to kiss him, but he knows that Mettaton won't feel a thing. It's hard, knowing that his gestures can't go all the way, that Mettaton can only be comforted by what little his body can sense.]

[He stares down at their interlaced fingers with a faint smile, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the other's hand as he speaks.]

Ha, would you now? Please, I think I've had enough of that law officer shouting his own name at everyone. [He pauses, raising his voice:] AND I'M JAVERT- yes, yes, everyone knows...

[He laughs, shaking his head once more.] You quite a fiend, you know that?

HA!!

[...that was. A noise Mettaton made. It's not his fault!! Keats making jokes is like the audio equivalent of finding a four-leaf clover in the middle of a desert - it will never not make Mettaton laugh in gleeful disbelief.

Despite the joined hands, he pulls his own back enough to "punch" this idiot in the stomach, desperately trying to compose himself.]

And you barely sing better than Russell Crowe, so I guess we're at an impasse when it comes to which one of us is the worst.

[He leans in to stage whisper.]

(That's a lie. It's you.)

Hey now, I was blessed with good writing talents, not singing talents. [He pretends to be hurt by that incredibly light punch, even letting out an amused "oof".] You're the one who can sing out of the two of us.

[That last statement makes him laugh, his hand reaching out to knock Mettaton in the shoulder with his knuckles.] Oh, really? And somehow you threatening me with musicals is somehow not the worst idea in the history of ideas? I think you're the worst. Anyone with eyes could see that.

[Ha!! Hahah!!]

Anyone would agree that I'm doing the work of a god. You need better taste. Maybe then, with a little inspiration, we'd manage to actually see those writing talents that, [he takes a breath he doesn't need and sings out the next part of his sentence,] we never get to wiiiiitneeeess!

But... you know. Since we aren't hiding anything... [He's toying with his own bangs now, managing to look embarrassingly coy.] Do you...?

[Oh my god, Mettaton. Oh my god, you're already dating, just ask the question.

...They are dating, aren't they? Was that not an agreement?? ...was the agreement just that they liked one another? What if that's not enough?? What if the dating isn't implicit? What if that's not on the table...??!

Mettaton, for the life of him, was meaning to ask "do you want to go out?" What leaves his speakers, in a flurry of self-consciousness and hesitation, is:]

Do you date me?

[...

He snakes his hands out of Keats' grip and turns on his heel. Nope. Done. This was a fun try!! Bye!]

Oh, come on now, maybe when we're not being launched into space with a million animal-inhabited planets I can sit down and finally put pen to paper.

[Oh, now, what's Mettaton going to ask. Keats looks at him quizzically, and then...]

[He says that...strangely worded question.]

[And bolts.]

Hey! Hey, hey now, you come back here! [He says, reaching out to grab Mettaton by the shoulder.] Of course we're dating, you silly machine!

[A beat.]

We are, aren't we? I thought we already were.

[No. No!! Don't pull him back! His silver-tongue has failed him. He needs to embrace death.

Mettaton whines, pawing a hand in the direction of the door, before Keats speaks up again.

Oh...

Oh thank god, for a minute he thought he was imagining that. Okay. Phew. PHEW.

Mettaton turns, slowly, still obviously a bit embarrassed. Whatever. Whatever. WHATEVER!! Nothing Mettaton does will ever be as embarrassing as Keats' continued existence. It's fine!]

I meant... the act. Of going on a date.

Do you want to go out tonight?

Edited 2017-04-27 04:57 (UTC)

Oh.

[That makes more sense. He pushes up the...glasses he still doesn't have, darn it. He reminds himself to buy some new ones, already, because he really doesn't think he's ever going to see his old ones ever again.]

Of course. Yes, I'd...I'd like that very much.

[He smiles.]

What do you have in mind?

[Yeah, he sees that gesture. Idiot.

...wait, what? What does he have in mind...?]

...

[Uh.]

I honestly thought I would still have my own restaurant when I asked someone this. [Who in the world is he going to yell at to clear the dining hall for him? This isn't acceptable...

Uh...]

Let's...? [...well.

...aww, there's a thought...

Mettaton holds out his arm and smiles, waiting for the other to take it.]

Why don't we sneak into the kitchen and I can make you something while you regale me with your supernatural history lessons, Dork Alert?

Edited (changed my mind) 2017-04-27 16:51 (UTC)

You really would take me on a date to your own restaurant?

[He doesn't know how he would even feel about that. He has half a mind that Mettaton will have some in-restaurant choir singing his praises every second as they dine. He wouldn't put it past him.]

You're losing your sense of creativity, Mettaton. "Dork Alert", really? [He says, with a smirk, as he takes Mettaton's offered arm.] You have to promise me that your cooking skills are up to par. I'm very particular about my food, you know.

[He says, like he doesn't eat things out of cans every other day.]

Edited 2017-04-29 18:46 (UTC)

1), [he holds up the finger of his other hand, bumping into Keats' shoulder while he leads them out of the room,] my cooking is exquisite, [he exaggerates. His cooking is... fine. It's hard without taste-buds.] 2) what other reason would I own a restaurant for, and 3). [Look at this bright, perfect smile.] "Victorian nerd who fell into a second-hand store selling nothing but mauve-colored mistakes" was too wordy.

Edited 2017-04-30 00:58 (UTC)

Too wordy? Maybe I should call you "scrap metal who somehow has more than one brain cell up in that hollow head of his". It simply rolls off the tongue.

[Said without any kind of malice - this is simply the way they flirt now, really.]

What was your restaurant like? Did you have tapestries of yourself up on the walls?

Wha-! [Oooh!!] First of all, get it right: there is nothing in this hollow head. It's the only reason I have the patience to deal with you. [True affection: burning yourself just to get at someone else.

Hee.]

Second of all, how dare you. My restaurant was classy! Candles, live music and entertainment, BEAUTIFUL ferns, an atmosphere to KILL for... [and, slightly under his breath,] tables in the shape of my body... [Ahem.] It was a masterpiece. You would loved it.

Sigh... looks like we'll just have to make due with homemade food, moonlit walks, and terrible company. [Wink.]

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