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Mettaton feels all of his inner mechanisms whirr to life in the warm comfort of his own bed. He’s always adored this bed. It’s perfectly tailored to him, complete with the right type of mattress, the best silky sheets, and the perfect amount of blankets and fluffy pillows.
As much as he’d love to revel in these meticulously crafted bedspread choices, there’s been a recent development.
The duvet that normally lays atop the soft second-layer blanket… is no longer on his body at all. It’s been completely pulled to the other side of his queen. Upon noticing, his eyebrow immediately gives a twitch.
There’s only one blanket still on his body and it’s one shuffle away from being gone as well. On top of the blanket, there’s a bony, sleeve-clad arm sprawled over his torso. Beneath the blanket, a hot sweatpant-clad leg strewn across both of his own legs.
Fantastic.
Mettaton slowly twists his neck and drinks in the sight of the back of a deep blue jacket. It’s hard to comprehend how bones can even twist like this. His lover is positioned on the bed like he’s about to run a marathon horizontally. The thought of Sans ever trying to run a marathon nearly makes him chuckle.
Nearly.
He’s not comfortable like this at all. The weight on top of his body is uneven and digging into his silicone parts and he has barely any coverage.
With little regard for not waking the other man, Mettaton grabs Sans’s stray arm and places it in a natural position. He then kicks the leg off of him and leans his face near the back of the skeleton’s neck.
“Is this why you’re so sluggish every day? Because you waste all your energy moving in your sleep? This is not your bed.”
With that, Mettaton bunches up the duvet in his metallic, gloveless hands and lifts it on top of himself. He turns so that his back faces Sans and snuggles gratefully into his magnificent comforter, suddenly very proud of his financial decisions. He rubs his fabulous legs together beneath the fabrics, relishing in their feeling.
…Until he hears the faint groaning of his companion and feels the guy creep up behind him. Those bony limbs wiggle their way beneath his comforter once again and curl around his body. This time, the movement is conscious and purposeful and the contact doesn’t dig like before.
“No, no, that’s okay. You’re done here. You don’t get any more-”
“mm. ‘m not gonna… i wouldn’t steal them while i’m awake.”
Sans buries his face in Mettaton’s midnight layers and breathes them all in.
“y’rhair. always smells so good. gotta tell me that.. shampoo.”
“What are you going to do with my shampoo, Sans? Please tell me.”
“i dunno yet. nothing good, i bet.”
The sound of his voice in the morning makes it hard to be annoyed. Mettaton scoffs and stretches an arm around to scratch his nails against the surface of Sans’s bald, bone head. It makes kind of a fun sound, he can’t lie. The skeleton’s hold tightens around the robot.
“fuuuck. that’s nice.”
“And you don’t deserve it.”
“donstop.. please?”
To sweeten the deal, Sans presses a few kisses to Mettaton’s bare shoulder peeking out from his collar-cut tee shirt. And he squeezes the silicone of his waist.
Mettaton sighs and continues scratching, turning it into a bit of ASMR for himself. He reaches further to tap along the base and brings his nails all around, tracing and scraping and such. He enjoys the sound of it all, including the breaths and ‘mm’s right by his ear.
“never- ah. never cut your nails.”
“I wouldn’t, darling, but even if I did, I could just get press-ons.”
“press-ons? i thought those were up here.”
Sans’s hand cheekily traces upward towards a little knob on Mettaton’s chestplate and he gasps before slapping the nimble fingers away.
“No, you cad, plastic nails! You’re not cute. I’m still annoyed.”
“for what?”
“For the blankets!”
“i was unconscious, man.”
“I’m actively sore between the legs because of you, don’t call me ‘man’.”
“alright, what time is it-” Sans unravels himself from Mettaton and sits up to look at the alarm clock. “agh. whaddya know. i gotta make the rounds.”
“What?”
Mettaton pokes his head up from where he drowned himself in fabric and his eyebrows pinch together. “You’re leaving?” He stares straight at the shadowy sockets of Sans’s eyes and the other man seems to look back at him with sheepish regret. Sans rubs the back of his cervical vertebrae and the corners of his smile wobble.
“yeah, i’m on the clock. you know how it is.”
Before Mettaton can protest, Sans is crawling his small self out of bed and searching for his slippers. They always end up on completely opposite sides of the room, somehow.
Mettaton snaps up from his comfortable position. His bed-head still manages to fall into place in a very chic way, like it doesn’t ever need to be brushed or styled. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches the man stumble around with his head hanging low.
His lips push into a pout on instinct.
“Is it really so important? You just fall asleep on the job anyway.”
He watches as Sans finally finds a single slipper and slides it onto his right foot. He’s not making eye contact at all.
“…yeah, but, uh. i just want to be there today.”
Now Mettaton’s wires are really in knots.
“Why?”
Sans pauses for a moment and tilts his head up to read Mettaton’s expression. His gaze is really sharp. The skeleton lets out an anticipatory breath and continues searching for his other slipper.
“tori’s gonna be in town. just… wanna say hey.”
Mettaton’s heart and soul sank to his ass. He could feel the words coming before the other man even said them. The robot immediately sinks his gapped front teeth into the soft material of his lower lip and nods very, very slowly.
“Right. Okay.” The mechanical hum of his body rises in volume faintly. He hears another almost exhausted sigh and it just pisses him off more.
“met. you know i-”
“I know. I know, you don’t have to explain. It’s fine.”
“don’t be like that, then.”
“I’m trying.”
A silence washes over the two of them. Mettaton might as well be throwing a tantrum with how loudly his body gives away his emotions. Sans is still looking at him with those light eyes that burn straight through his plating. He can see the frustrated look on his face without having to look. Like Mettaton is the most difficult scientific equation.
Eventually, there’s another exhale. There’s the soft sound of a second slipper being adorned, and then shuffling footsteps. Soon enough, Sans is at his side again. A cold, bony hand is brought up to his soft, white cheek.
Mettaton can’t look at him. He glares at some item in his room, unblinking.
“do you want to go somewhere tonight?”
Mettaton’s lashes flutter and his brows become the slightest bit less harsh. His only visible pupil darts to the corner of his eye for the briefest second.
“…Like.. where?”
“like…”
Sans’s gaze falls to his boyfriend’s blanket.
“that club in new home. the one we went to with alphys and pap. just the two of us this time.”
Mettaton finally turns his head. He feels Sans’s fingers stroking his cheek and feels the intensity of his attention. However, even while looking at him, he can’t stop thinking about “Tori”. The nickname for her never went away. The lovely queen, funny and cool in every way. Sans’s newly remarried ex-lover, and apparently, dear friend.
Mettaton thinks about what Sans thinks when he looks at her — if he ever wonders what it would’ve been like to end up with her instead. He wonders if the man aches for it.
The thought makes him sick. It makes him want to keep Sans in bed all day so they can talk and laugh and hit the follies.
He remembers that Sans is waiting for an answer.
“What about… the show we were going to watch today?” He has to steel his voice and force it not to waver. He feels so lame.
“we’ll have time tomorrow..”
It hurts like his whole body being twisted into a braid. Mettaton takes a deep, stabilizing breath and leans his cheek into the man’s hand.
“I’m sorry for being like this.”
“it’s… it’s okay, met. i promise. we’ll go to the club tonight, i’ll—” He sighs.
“i’ll wear a suit.”
Mettaton meets his eyes again. He can’t help but spurt out a shaky, wet laugh.
“A suit, or a shirt with a suit on it?”
“i’ll decide that when night comes.”
The taste of banter somehow feels even worse, knowing he could have this all day but instead has to find some other way to occupy himself. Once Sans leaves, the anger and frustration will probably return. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with himself.
Sans brings Mettaton’s face down to his own and gives him a sweet kiss. Mettaton still doesn’t quite understand how it happens — he always closes his eyes. When they part, Sans is already slipping off the bed again.
“i’ll bring you something from town. seeya tonight.”
“Have fun, darling.”
With a wink, the sound of slippers against Mettaton’s floor fades until it’s no longer in earshot. And he’s gone.
Mettaton gazes at his hands where they rest against his meticulously crafted bedspread.
He wants to rip it apart.