Chapter Text
Everybody is born knowing the first words their SOULmates will say to them. It’s just sort of a funny quirk, your SOUL’s way of confirming to you who you’re meant to be with forever, whether it be romantically or platonically.
Growing up—or, well, growing older, because as a ghost, he never exactly grew—Mettaton was always confused by his words. Or, in his case, word.
“Mettaton.”
First off, his name wasn’t Mettaton, nor did he know anybody named Mettaton. Not that it wasn’t an awesome name, but his name was Suzy. Second off, why just say a random name? Seems like a bad way to meet people. Maybe you would be mistaking him for someone else?
But, confusing or no, they were meant to be his, and he couldn’t wait to meet them.
Time passes, and Mettaton has an opportunity. He meets a scientist named Alphys who offers to give him what he’s always wanted—a body, and a chance at a new life. He says goodbye to his cousin Napstablook and hello to a fabulous pink-and-black robotic chassis, and he only cries a little bit. And when Alphys says, “Good morning, Suzy. How are you feeling?”, he just smirks confidently and says, “Mettaton. I’m Mettaton now,” and he feels just that much closer to you.
But even more time passes, and he doesn’t find you. He buries his sadness in work and becomes the biggest star in the Underground, and he doesn’t find you. And there’s another problem, too.
“M-Mettaton!” squeals a fan, and he turns around reflexively and smiles wearily when he finds a small rock monster, all done up in pink and black to match his paint.
“Yes, darling, that’s me. Would you like an autograph?”
“Mettaton! Holy crap, it's really you!”
“Mettaton? Sorry, I don't mean to bother you, but...that's you, right?”
“Mettaton! Mettaton! Mettaton!” chant the crowds at his concerts.
And he smiles his best smiles and gives out his autograph with a flourish and by now he’s not even sure whether one of them was you and he somehow missed it.
Honestly, by the time a small child makes their way through the Underground and frees them all, he’s quite given up on the very idea of SOULmates. He only has one dream now, and that’s to become the star the humans obviously need.
His job is rewarding, but very tiring, and sometimes he just wants some time to himself. It’s with that thought in mind that he leaves his penthouse on a cold winter day in his warmest coat and best disguise and makes his way to a local café.
He’s sitting down with a nice cup of tea and a muffin and reading some garbage human romance novel when he feels somebody’s eyes on him from the next table over.
He raises an eyebrow at you, expecting you to blush and apologize, but instead your stare is steady and thoughtful.
He tries to go back to his book, but he knows you’re still looking at him.
Finally, he sets down his tea with a definite thunk and glares back, raising both eyebrows this time in challenge.
“Mettaton.” you say slowly, and by now he’s stopped flinching when he hears his own name, because he knows it will never mean what he wants it to.
But it’s his day off, and he’s tired and didn’t bother polishing up his makeup today and he honestly wants to get back to his tea and he can already spot at least two people whose ears perked up at your declaration, so he wraps his scarf more firmly around him and pulls down his beanie and hisses, “No.”
He thinks he spots your eyes widening just a fraction, but they return to normal soon enough. “No what?”
“No, I’m not Mettaton.” he snaps. “Trust me, get it all the time, but—“
You point at the scarf, and—oh, gods, he’s picked the MTT-brand scarf with his face on it and the neon pink letters spelling out ‘METTATON’, hasn’t he. Crap. Why does he even have this, again?
When he looks back up, your eyes are dancing. He scowls, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, and gets up out of his seat, storming over to you and dragging you along with him out the door.
When you reach an alleyway away from prying eyes, he demands, “So what do you want, then? Autograph? Selfie?”
You tilt your head, an action he might think was cute if his own head wasn’t hurting so much. “Um, no, neither, thanks. I just wanted to—“
“To what? Interrupt a peaceful teatime?” He’s aware that he sounds a little pissy, but he has the right to be, doesn’t he? Why couldn’t you have just kept to yourself? He supposes that’s the downside of being a celebrity, no privacy ever—
You reach out and brush your hand against his cheek, and he freezes, starting to blabber out, “Excuse me, but this is highly inappropriate—“
“You had a massive crumb on your face,” you say, displaying the evidence proudly before flicking it away. “It was incredibly distracting. That’s why I was staring at you. Sorry about that, by the way.”
He blinks. What?
“I figured I’d get your attention much easier if I called you by name, so—I guess I just figured if you had a scarf with that on it it must be something personal? I guess not, though.” You tap your fingers on your chin. “What’s your name, then?”
“I mean—you don’t know who I am?” Mettaton asks weakly. Everybody knows who he is.
“Well, you’re apparently not Mettaton,” you say cheerfully. “So that’s one down.”
He buries his head in his hands. “No, I am Mettaton.”
He looks up. Your smile is polite, but confused. “You’re giving off some mixed signals here, friend.”
He sighs deeply. “I was undercover, you understand? I’m quite famous, so if I just gave away my identity in a crowded café—“
“Oh!” You pat a fist into your open hand, eyes sparkling with realization. “That Mettaton! You trend on Headspace all the time. I have a friend who loves you.”
“There we are.” He knows it’s egotistical to feel a bit relieved, but he does nonetheless.
“Makes more sense why you’d ask me if I wanted a selfie and autograph, too,” you muse. “I had thought that was strange. No offense.”
“None taken,” he mumbles. “Now that that’s settled, can we—“
“Crap, and that’s why you dragged me out of there too, huh? I blew it for you.”
He runs his hands through his hair, starting to feel a bit claustrophobic. “It’s fine, you didn’t kn—“
“No, it’s not!” you say heatedly. “Let me get you something to make up for it, all right? Hang on.”
Before he knows it, you’re running back into the café. Peeking around the corner, he can see you in the checkout line. He contemplates leaving and just going home, but—that would be rude, wouldn’t it?
In a few minutes, you’re back with what smells like tea. “I didn’t know what kind you liked, so I just got my favorite,” you say apologetically.
“You could have just picked up the remnants of my tea and then it wouldn’t have been a problem, you realize,” he responds coolly, taking a sip of tea and savoring it on his tongue. It’s not bad.
“Oh. True.” Shrugging, you start fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Oh well.”
“Thank you all the same,” Mettaton says, because he has manners, darn it. He's about to excuse himself when you beat him to the chase.
“Anyway!” You beam up at him. “It’s been lovely, but I have better places to be than an alleyway with a stranger.” You pause. “No offense, again.”
He’s not sure whether he’s offended this time. “Of course.”
“So, uh…I’m just gonna…” You point at the street. “Yeah.”
He resists the urge to rub his temples. “Please.”
You walk out of the alleyway, waving, and he relaxes, before tensing up again when your face pops around the corner. “Oh, also!”
“Yes?” he groans out, exasperated.
“If you’re trying to be incognito, you might want to wear a different scarf.” You give him double finger guns, then vanish again before he can say anything.
You leave him alone, looking like a total creep in a dirty alleyway with lemon verbena tea, a flashy scarf, and a pounding headache.