FUTUROLOGY IC INBOX

[headlining]

 

username: UNKNOWNREALMS

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[ex_mettacrusher33]

[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?

[headlining]

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?

[ex_mettacrusher33]

[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?

[headlining]

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.]

[ex_mettacrusher33]

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.

[headlining]

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?

[ex_mettacrusher33]

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.]