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It's no secret that Napstablook is dazzling. Mettaton can tell everyone knows that they're pretty - he can see it in the way that people sometimes stare at them when they go past, or when they offer to carry their books for them. Well, they try. Napstablook always escapes before whoever it is gets within five meters of them.
But there are always a few idiots in every school, and the ones here are quite transphobic. And homophobic. And . . . well, actually, anything-LGBT-phobic. Mettaton tries to steer clear of them, and even when he does encounter them, even they're too afraid of him to try and do anything. All they can do is try to talk behind his back or make little jokes when he's not around, which he doesn't really care about.
What he does care about is when they try to make "little jokes" to Blooky's face. Little jokes, the boys call them, when Mettaton's there to pummel their butts into the next locker. Harmless little jokes, when they're direct insults. Normally, he'd be a little less direct, but when it comes to his cousin, he'd do anything. (Especially after he left them to get into that reality show. That was probably the worst thing he'd done to Blooky.)
But today, it's different. He's not there to protect Blooky. He's at home, with a fever. Not bad enough for him to be puking into the next trashcan, but definitely not mild enough for him to go to school. At the thought of his darling cousin crying yet again at school, he grimaces and takes a long, long drink of his water. It's alright, probably, he thinks to himself. It's almost time for his cousin to get back home.
So he does a little more waiting. And worrying. And maybe he digs up one of his newer diaries to write in. He passes the time in whatever way he can, and after what seems like a lifetime, he can hear the door downstairs opening. He can't hear footsteps, though. That's fine. Napstablook is always quiet. He'd be freaked out if they made any noise, to be honest. Still, he has to make sure. "BLOOKY!" he calls out, managing to yell properly with his sore throat. "IS THAT YOU, DARLING?"
Instead of making a verbal reply, Napstablook opens the door. "Hello," they say quietly. "Are you okay? Oh no . . . You're not . . . sicker, are you?" Hesitantly, they make their way to the side of the bed, and put a small hand on Mettaton's forehead. He knows his temperature has dropped - he's feeling significantly better than he was feeling this morning.
Before they can comment on his temperature, he swats their hand aside as gently as possible. "It's fine, it's fine! To be frank, I'm more worried about you, Blooky," he confesses. "How was school? Did anybody pick on you? Did anyone make you cry?"
They shake their head. "Nobody," they respond, and sit down on the bed next to him. "You - You're too scary for them to be rude . . . even when you're not around." Surprisingly enough, they even manage a small smile. "You know . . . you take good enough care of me. You should take a bit of time to rest."
Mettaton doesn't really take good enough care of them, in his opinion. If he has to worry, there's always something wrong. But, maybe . . . "If taking some rest makes you happy, I'll do it, Blooky," he says seriously, and watches a small blush make its way on their face. "And don't complain," he adds, knowing that the other will soon say something self-deprecating.
Napstablook doesn't. "Okay . . ." they mutter. "I - I'll be in my room . . . if you know, you need me to help you or something. Please . . . take good care of yourself, okay?" They press a quick kiss to his forehead, and speed out of the room at a pace that is too quick for them not to make any noise.
Sometimes, it feels like Napstablook takes better care of him than they do of themselves. That's okay. He'll take care of them, and he'll start by making them happy.
He smiles, and shuts his eyes.