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Nothing had been going Mettaton’s way all day.
It started in the morning, powering up groggily to an empty bed, the solidity of his beloved’s chassis he’d grown used to laying against as he recharged presently gone. It was rare, but it happened on occasion — Tenna either swept away to his studio by a phone call or by his own whim, but his absence being so unannounced was uncharacteristic of Tenna. Mettaton sat up to survey his surroundings and saw a Tenna-shaped sticky note on his bedside table, writing scrawled onto it.
Sweetheart -
Left early, needed at the studio. Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll be home early, though. Love, Tenna. (And a crude drawing of Tenna’s happy, smiling face).
Mettaton huffed. Something must’ve really gone awry if it got Tenna to haul ass out their bed and to his studio like that. The handwritten note made an affectionate feeling bubble up inside Mettaton, though. It reminded him of his multitude of diaries – feelings so tangibly written, the handwritten note so achingly domestic he couldn’t find it in his processors to be mad at Tenna. But it set a precedent. Getting ready alone always puts him in a sour mood. No Tenna to ask to help zip up his boots (even if he really didn’t need him to), no Tenna to let Mettaton tie his tie, no Tenna to kiss him lingeringly out the door, no matter how late they were…
It didn’t help that his favorite, most-worn pair of boots decided to break on him, zipper getting stuck midway up his calf and not budging no matter how much he tugged. He wasn’t proud of the amount of yelling that followed after that, flinging a poor bottle of lipstick halfway across the bedroom. And then he was pissed off at that, realizing which bottle of lipstick it’d been, one of his favorites for dates with Tenna. This day wouldn’t be his, no matter what he did.
He made it to his studio with minimal hassle and was instantly bombarded with work. Apparently, he’d left an annoying amount of things for himself to do the previous day. Several times, he considered dropping everything and calling Tenna. But he had to stay and listen to one of his stagehands drone on about logistics of his new, soon-to-be-introduced segment, as he was flooded with information from several other sides throughout. The irritation only pounded louder and louder the longer his attention was demanded, swarmed by weary assistants and asked incessant questions. He could be a patient man, but it seemed like everyone was trying to prove that wrong.
At least he could go through the day knowing that last little bit of Tenna’s note. I’ll be home early. If he could tie up the day in a neat little bow, he could leave early, too, and go meet Tenna at home, and finally relax. Heaven knows he needs it — he’s itching at the thought of putting on sweats and joining Tenna on the couch, nursing a glass of acid as he listens to Tenna ramble about his day. But Mettaton’s day has hardly even started, and the list of responsibilities only seems to be growing.
By the time it’s mid-afternoon and it seems like he’s made it to the final couple pages of the excessively-thick pile of papers on his desk, an assistant chimes over the intercom to remind him of his photoshoot he’d somehow completely forgotten he’d booked today. He nearly snaps his pen in his hands, but it’s fine. He’s Mettaton. Photoshoots are a breeze for him. He can twist his mechanical body in any which way as quickly as he needs, capture eccentric poses for the covers of magazines and posters and billboards.
Except, upon arrival, this photographer instantly made her unpleasant demeanor known. For every pose Mettaton did, there were a million minute adjustments to be made. Every. Pose. And every costume change. And every piece of jewelry needed to be affixed perfectly, and a single hair couldn’t be out of place. He’d usually appreciate another perfectionist eye if she wasn’t so blunt and impatient with him, quickly churning up his ire, a fuming, boiling rage rising in Mettaton by the time they were finally done. It was much later than Tenna would’ve likely been home, now, and much later than when Mettaton wanted to be by his side.
Even if those photos turned out gorgeous, there was no way he’d ever interact with that incorrigible monster ever again. On the drive home, he’d made several fuming calls to assistants, practically taking out his anger on his poor staff, demanding why they’d ever give Mettaton her name. All floundering, confused answers, justifiably so. Another outburst he isn’t proud of.
It’s dark outside. The night is quickly escaping him as he walks up the steps of his and Tenna’s home, feet aching from having to wear a less broken-in pair of boots from morning to night. He fumbles with his keys, finally, finally making it home.
Tenna’s sat on the couch when he walks in, watching TV and laughing to himself at whatever program he’s got on. His antennae perk up with the clacking of Mettaton’s heels, though, whipping his screen around with a big, excitable grin on his face. “Mettaton! Welcome home, sweetheart! How was your day? Do you want me to…”
Tenna’s rambling goes gradually unheard, pushed out an achingly fatigued mind. He simply walks to the couch and wordlessly plants himself atop it, melting seamlessly into Tenna’s side with a puff of steam pushing out his ventilation. A large sigh. Tenna’s excitement quickly dies down to a more appropriate tone.
“Oh, Mettaton…” He murmurs, wrapping a large arm around his side. “Is your battery low? Here, I’ll carry you upstairs, and—“
“No. No, it’s okay.” Mettaton mumbles, voice just a tad too blunt at his sweet, doting Tenna.
Tenna frowns, deeply, wrapping those big arms around him. “What happened?”
It takes Mettaton a moment to reply, but Tenna’s patience encourages him to speak. He tells him everything. He watches as Tenna’s face morphs from patience to displeasure to outright anger on his part. It’s cute — and the longer he speaks, the more tension he can feel being relieved from his body. Especially with the gentle rubs of Tenna’s hands over his plating, the way he’d moved Mettaton to take off his boots for him when he’d complained about his aching feet.
“Golly. I’m sorry, doll.” Tenna says, rubbing a thumb up and down the metal ribbing at his waist. “Apparently neither of us had very good days.”
“Right, you had to go in early. What was so urgent at the studio this morning?” Mettaton asks. He’s curious; he has been all day. Tenna cringes at the memory.
“The weather duo broke up, unscripted this time. Everyone was freaking out. I had to bribe them with POINTs to make them play nice during their segments. As if I have POINTs to throw around…”
Tenna turns his attention towards Mettaton, again. “I’m sorry I left in such a rush. But… you looked so gorgeous, I didn’t wanna wake you…”
He gives Mettaton a silly, lopsided grin. He’s already forgiven him, especially with his sweet words. He’d forgotten all about it the second he got to be back in Tenna’s arms.
“It's okay, darling.” He leans in close, and watches, with immense satisfaction, the way Tenna’s screen tints red, with a little peek of his test pattern shining through. “You can make it up to me, can’t you?”
He captures Tenna in a kiss. Despite his salacious wording, the kiss is chaste. And he can’t stop smiling. Tenna doesn’t, either, but when does he ever — he melts into Mettaton’s lips and hums happily, urging him up fully atop his lap. They continue on like that, momentarily, embraced in a lazy, slow kiss. Until Tenna pulls back and reaches up to grasp Mettaton’s face, and rubs his cheek gently with his thumb.
“Do you want me to pour you a drink?” He asks. He’s clearly in hyper-doting Tenna mode, and he couldn’t deny his lover the satisfaction of caring for another. He nods. Tenna nods back, and eases Mettaton off his lap to stand up, padding off to the kitchen without another word.
Mettaton lounges back on the couch while he waits, half-watching the program on TV while getting lost in his thoughts. It’d been a long time before Mettaton could allow himself to be so vulnerable with Tenna. At the start of their relationship, he was much more standoffish. Tenna wore his heart on his sleeve, and even if he didn’t try to make it obvious how he felt, he was never very good at hiding it from him. Mettaton, on the other hand, needed to be coaxed out gradually. He’d spent years on his own, but he was able to adopt the life he’d always wished he had with Alphys’s help and support. He didn’t want to get sidetracked. But he gradually came to realize that Tenna was a very, very lovely distraction.
Tenna walks back in, two glasses in one hand, and a plate piled high with pastries in the other. He recognizes some of them as having been baked by Tenna – he’d told Mettaton he was trying out recipes for a ‘possible new segment’, but he suspected he just wanted to bake him treats. Mettaton happily takes a glass out his way and grabs one of his sugary confections to shove in his mouth, humming in delight at the instant comfort of the indulgence. Tenna grins and finds his place right back at Mettaton’s side.
“We could watch a movie, or whatever you want to do. Spend the rest of our nights together.”
Tenna kisses some stray sugar off Mettaton’s face, right at the corner of his lips. He feels a sickly sweet affection take hold of him, hardly able to find words to say with the way his SOUL is pounding within him. He wants to spend the rest of their nights together. He wants to spend every night together, for the rest of their lives. That level of attachment should feel scary to him. But it doesn’t.
“Movie sounds nice,” Mettaton replies, shifting closer to press his body into Tenna’s side, resting his chin on his shoulder. “I may not be able to stay powered on, though. We’ll see.”
“That’s okay, doll. Let’s see...”
They agree on some 80s romcom Tenna swears up and down is a classic. It’s good, but something about the nostalgic breath of 80s cinematography soothes Mettaton right to sleep mode. They’ve nestled into their familiar positions, too, Tenna laid back on the couch with Mettaton on his chest, and Mettaton isn’t sure how he’s supposed to do anything except nod off. Tenna doesn’t stop it, of course, so he feels his eyelids gradually become heavier and heavier until he can’t keep them open and the words from the TV sound like gibberish.
The next thing he remembers is waking up in their bed, with Tenna beside him, a little sliver of morning light casting a glow on Tenna’s screen. His mouth is open and he’s snoring quietly, and he’s holding Mettaton to him like a teddy bear.
He feels an immense satisfaction, holding, being held. Like he’d never, ever lose this.