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Rumor had it that celebrations were once a scarcity in TV World. It never stopped the pippins from partying offstage, true, but those remained casual. Just a little something-something for the Darkners to enjoy when Lightners went to sleep. Never over the top or official, but more than a quick trip to the Green Room for a cocktail. And definitely nothing Tenna ever attended to. Besides, why attend a party when he could survey every corner from the comfort of a private suite?
But that changed since Mettaton’s arrival. No need for Ramb to disclose the details, either; he saw it for himself.
It started with the Halloween party, followed by the cast party honoring Mettaton's first appearance on TV Time. Many more cropped up in its wake, including the celebration for Mettaton's debut performance—his own show and time slot, courtesy of a certain gentleman—which lasted well into morning. Those rare occurrences became common place, from seasonal to nightly. What brought them together that very evening? Hell if he knew anymore. No reason necessary, so long as everyone had fun.
Tenna included.
Mettaton leaned back into the bar’s countertop, eyes glued to the man of the hour. He arrived fashionably late, still donning his navy blue suit from the evening news. Pippins cheered and crowded him, enthusiastic as always, and Mettaton chuckled behind a martini glass of motor oil as Tenna evaded them. Without his cane present (again? Tch, idiot), Tenna clasped his hands behind his back and ambled to the bar. Ramb had his usual order lined up before he sat down: a wicked concoction that reeked of burning cedar wood and gasoline.
And it tasted divine on his lips, if Mettaton did say so himself, but now wasn't the time. Not yet. They were in public.
“Fancy meeting you here, sweetheart,” he teased. “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever show up.”
Tenna huffed out a hmph. Knocking back his drink in one swift motion, he nudged it towards Ramb for a refill. Always played out that way, too, like the buzz would kick in faster. That liquid courage also numbed the pain he was in, no doubt—with his damaged legs and the headache the pippins gave him. Used to numb any emotion, good or bad, but Tenna clued him in on that months ago.
Now? The alcohol masked nothing; it brought out something else instead.
Tenna finished lighting up a cigar when Ramb slid round two to him. That time, he savored the amber liquid, balancing the whiskey glass and cigar in one hand. After several sips and flicking into an ashtray, Tenna observed the revelry with disinterest. No colorful commentary from him. He kept quiet, and Mettaton relished the comfortable silence as well as his own drink. Not that he required it for sustenance (perks of being a robot), nor did it impact him. Same went for the Darkners.
How did a Darkner get smashed when they could forgo the things that kept Lightners alive? Excellent question. Mettaton had yet to solve that conundrum. Nonetheless, a dash of imagination and suspension of disbelief went a long way in a Dark World. Perhaps alcohol worked as intended (and without damaging internal mechanisms) because Tenna willed it into existence, much like how Mettaton’s body finally evolved into a figure he cherished. Some mysteries were best left alone.
Still, the act evoked nostalgia. Mettaton once adored watching movies involving nightclub scenes. The humans danced and drank until dawn, as wild as the melodies they blasted, and never thought twice about their problems or mistakes. TV World’s film noir vibes were a far cry from those modern aesthetics, but at least here Mettaton could fulfill his dreams. It wasn’t real, of course—just a fabricated shadow of the real world—but it was nice to pretend, to be like the human actors he idolized.
He didn’t need to pretend with Tenna. What they shared was real. And what surfaced by the next refill? Mettaton liked to believe that was real, too.
Tenna hid a growing smile behind the glass (which was ridiculous, considering the size difference), but his actions spoke plenty. Gloved fingers drummed alongside the live band. His antennas relaxed, almost bobbing to the melody. He even pushed off the countertop to perch on the edge of his seat. Then he hummed, tapped his foot, and applauded each performance. What an exemplary captive audience member he was!
But it was his laugh—oh, that laugh—which caught Mettaton by surprise, again and again.
No prerecorded laugh track captured the sheer volume and unadulterated delight in his outburst. It was a laugh meant for punch lines sticking the landing, for sitcoms pausing and waiting for viewers to catch their breath. It was a laugh that accompanied knee-slapping and happy tears. It was a laugh that flooded the room, that sparked more laughter, and reached well beyond the party itself.
It was a laugh that only happened when Tenna was three drinks deep in that silly juice and wiggling his empty glass at Ramb to top him off, all with a mischievous yoohoo! And for that, Mettaton couldn’t help but mourn the man Tenna possibly used to be—locked up and forgotten, summoned only by the whims of inebriation.
He... wished he had the chance to meet him. Under better circumstances, of course. Seemed like a fun guy. Maybe in a different life, one where they both didn’t have to sacrifice a part of themselves to survive.
But here and now? Mettaton smiled and giggled, enjoying the show his plastered lover was putting on at the bar counter—his limited-time performance.
“Wow, would ya LOOK AT THAT!” Tenna gestured to him with his glass mid-pouring, much to Ramb’s dismay. “Guy like you lights up the WHOLE ROOM with a smile as bright as that!”
Mettaton rolled his eyes, yet his smile persisted. “So I’m told.”
“Oh yeah? Says who?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“C’mon! Gimme a hint!”
He batted eyelashes while taking a slow sip. “I imagine you don’t call me sunshine for nothing.”
Well, it began as a backhanded compliment, but that was well over a year ago. In recent times, Tenna spoke it (moaned it, even) with utmost reverence, saved for the ears of a coveted deity. But that was neither here nor there. Not while Tenna was drunk.
“Sunshine,” he repeated, a goofy smile pervading his screen. “I like the sound of that.”
Me too, Mettaton kept to himself. Maybe come morning, he’d remind Tenna of that. Better chances of him remembering.
Perhaps Tenna did remember enough to mind the distance between them, despite the influence of alcohol and his gesticulating. Had to keep matters professional while out in the open (even if every Darkner in a ten-mile radius was painfully aware of their attraction well before their trysts became something more official). Mettaton humored Tenna’s insistence on that. Such a control freak, but a perfect excuse to pluck his wires and tease him to a breaking point. Besides, staying respectful in the public eye had its allure. It made the fleeting touches leading up to the main event—those not-so-accidental brushes in passing—far more exhilarating.
What they traded now, however, was different.
Tenna apologized whenever he swayed in Mettaton’s direction. And when they bumped shoulders or knees. And when cigar ash dusted Mettaton’s thigh, and Tenna reached to brush it off, only to flinch away. Sorry about taking up space, for interrupting a good time, for believing he was an inconvenience when he was, in fact, the exact opposite. Then the band played a new song. The crowd cheered, Tenna perked up, and the apologies vanished, yielding to jubilation. A pinball machine of emotions, complete with sound effects and flashy lights.
It was simply a matter of time before Tenna leaned too hard, knocking himself off balance. Alcohol sloshed. The glass spun midair and shattered. Shards and splashes of amber sparkled on the floor, but no one cared, if they noticed at all. Even Tenna laughed it off with a whoopsie! instead of groveling for forgiveness. No harm done, save for the drink. Better to have that break than Tenna.
Mettaton steadied him and glanced behind the bar. If Ramb did so much as blink at the commotion, that was news to him. He simply stood there, mixing cocktails and giving the commotion a passing look at best. Before finishing the order, Ramb jerked his chin at Tenna as his eyes flicked to Mettaton.
“This mess is yours to clean up, love,” he muttered, jaded as ever.
No arguments there. Like he required an excuse to sneak out with the head honcho and keep the handsome little thing all to himself.
Polishing off his drink, Mettaton collected Tenna. Easier said than done, but honeyed words and teasing touches coaxed him to leave (to do anything, really, drunk or sober). Two right arms enveloped his waist as Mettaton led him out of the lounge. The other two swapped between supporting Tenna and navigating TV World’s dingy corridors.
Music died down to a distant hum. Neon blue running lights buzzed and provided illumination alongside a glowing TV face. All that lived in the air were staggering steps and Tenna’s slurred ramblings.
Lucky for him, Mettaton had yet to tire of his voice.
“Ya know, we used to do Westerns back in the day.”
Huh, that was new. He glanced at Tenna as they entered a dimly lit backstage (must’ve been a skeleton crew doing reruns; everyone else attended the party). “Really?”
“Yup!” The word popped in his speakers, joined by a spark between his antennas. “Never missed a show! Always—” Tenna stumbled, but no loose cables tripped him. “Always right on the dot! No delays! Ha ha!” He leaned harder into Mettaton. “Ah, those were some swell MEMORIES!”
“I must say: it’s rather difficult picturing you in a cowboy getup.”
“WHAT?! Oh, c’mon, gimme some slack! I was a JACK OF ALL TRADES back then!”
“I’m aware, sweetheart.” Mettaton flashed a devious smile. “Perhaps you have old marketing material? You know, with you in full costume for a photoshoot?”
Words eluded Tenna, yet he stared at him, looming two full heads above. Mettaton seized the moment to tease further; a free hand glided along his tie, hoping it planted a bare minimum of six filthy ideas in his cathode head.
“Or maybe,” he purred, “you have that costume lying around somewhere and you can do me the honor of putting on a private show.” Curling delicate digits around the silk, Mettaton gently pulled at the tie to reel Tenna in. A sliver of space separated them, interrupted by static shocks. “It would only be fair. I’ve done precisely that for you plenty of—”
Tenna hissed in a breath and exhaled a curse. Something about one of his legs killing him. That explained the abrupt jerk, the need to inspect the left thigh in particular (never healed properly, or so he claimed). The real buzzkill was when Tenna careened further and toppled. Adrenaline coursed Mettaton. He swooped in to catch him, but the impact knocked him off balance. Together, they tumbled onto the ground, with Mettaton cushioning Tenna’s fall. Better that than a cracked screen.
“Tenna?” Mettaton propped himself up on two elbows, his free hands assessing the massive body splayed over him. “Are you okay?”
A snort emerged, then a delirious giggle. Antennas twitched and bumped into Mettaton’s jaw. “Whoopsie daisy! Someone musta dropped a banana peel on the floor! Took a real doozy there!”
Well, good thing he was drunk enough to not give a shit about the accident. Or about his choice words on the matter. The Tenna he knew would rather blow out his electron gun with a bullet than utter anything of that caliber.
And yet this side of him proved to be endearing, like Mettaton unearthed a dusty box of keepsakes stowed in an attic.
“Do you think you can get up?” he asked.
“Or someone spilled some JUICE! Ha ha!” Tenna lifted a hand, struggling to snap his fingers at the epiphany. “Bet that’s the culprit.”
Okay, so that was a no: couldn’t stand in the foreseeable future. This would’ve been easier if he had his cane handy, but that can of worms was staying sealed shut. Then again, with Tenna singing a nonsense ditty about fresh juice and getting it on his shoes... yeah, this was a lost cause. Might as well get comfortable and wait until he sobered up.
Mettaton couldn’t complain. He never did, if it meant spending quality time with Tenna.
Once out from underneath him (unfortunately), Mettaton repositioned himself and Tenna, tucked against storage crates and costume racks. It wasn’t behind closed doors, but it sufficed. Hopefully the stray crew member strolling by didn’t mind. No one gave him or Tenna a passing glance. As for Mettaton, his attention locked onto the giggling mess nestled in his lap.
Rainbow hues warped the outer edges of his screen, mimicking blush. He never stopped smiling, never stopped blabbing about anything and nothing. A tremor plagued his legs on and off (the left one more often than not), but a tender caress from Mettaton did the trick. Earned him a hitch in Tenna’s speakers, paired with a flustered o-oh! Mettaton stifled a cackle. Such a gesture was incredibly chaste in comparison to their typical nights spent indulging each other, and that was what turned him coy? How sweet. How endearing.
And oh, how it tore out his SOUL and smashed it to smithereens.
What gave Mettaton pause, however, was when Tenna fell silent. Somewhere between commercial breaks, if he recalled the timing correctly, before the distant broadcast’s final stretch. All that time (all forty some-odd minutes), Tenna ran his mouth, then slammed into an invisible wall. Lips fell ajar. The harsh glow of his face aimed at Mettaton like a spotlight.
He tilted his head. “Something wrong?”
Tenna remained speechless. Maybe the alcohol was wearing off and clarity returned. Mettaton waited, nonetheless.
Still caught him off-guard, though, when a bouquet of red roses bloomed from his nose.
“Wow,” Tenna breathed out. “You’re GORGEOUS.”
Heat swelled in his wires. Half-formed words sputtered, barely sounds. The way he said it—lush and smooth, brimming with genuine admiration, yet stating it as if this was their first meeting—surged through Mettaton. Out of all the compliments Tenna bestowed him over the year, that simple observation burned the hottest in Mettaton’s circuits and left a brand. At least this body was worthy of the praise (also thanks to Tenna’s efforts).
“When did you show up, hmm?” Tenna continued while Mettaton sat tongue-tied. “New around here?”
An airy laugh escaped him. Almost turned into a scoff. “I’ve been here long enough.”
“Nah, woulda remembered a fresh face like yours, sunshine.” He tried reaching for Mettaton, maybe to cup a cheek, but retracted. “It’s not every day ya see a showstopper like YOU.”
“And what would I need to do—” Mettaton cradled his hand and brought it to his face. He nuzzled into the palm, lips brushing Tenna’s inner wrist. “—to jog your memory?”
One antenna spasmed. A rose wilted. His fingers curved ever-so-slightly into Mettaton’s neck. Claws grazed metal. Curious, yet careful. “Whaddya mean?”
“I mean that we do see each other daily, sweetheart.”
“We... we do?”
“Mmm, of course.” He clutched Tenna’s hand and placed a smoldering kiss into the black leather glove. “And you take very, very good care of me.”
Mettaton intended to pepper kisses down Tenna’s arm, take his time in the descent, and arrive at his lips. That would surely switch on a lightbulb in his head to clear the drunken haze.
He never made it as far as a second kiss. Not when Tenna chuckled, lacking his initial elation.
“Ha! Good one!” He withdrew his hand, waggling a finger. “Almost got me going there for a minute.”
Lips pursed. “I’m not joking.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure thing. Whatever ya say—” A hiccup warped his screen into snow, scattering the lovely bouquet. Petals rained upon them once his face flickered into view. “No way I’m buying THAT. Guy like me with a sweet, SWEET THING like you?” Another laugh, weaker than before. His hand plummeted to his side, nothing but dead weight. “Well, guess it doesn’t hurt to dream.”
“Oh, please. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not! I’m MR. (ANT) TENNA, for your information!”
Okay, that made him snort. “You’re also drunk.”
“Says who?!”
“Says the gorgeous man who frequents your casting couch, so to speak.”
His mouth faded. What a shame; Mettaton was tempted to silence him with a hard kiss to convince Tenna otherwise. But then his screen dimmed. Antennas drooped, too.
“Oh. You mean it. Not pulling my leg this time.”
This time? Mettaton smoothed over an antenna, soothing the quivers there. “Tenna, sweetheart, I—”
“I’d be pretty stupid to refuse a RAY OF SUNSHINE like you! Ha! Wow! I just... WOW!”
And yet trembles riddled him, from antenna to toe. Even with four hands at his disposal, Mettaton couldn’t massage them out of existence. Didn’t stop him from trying, though.
He embraced Tenna, idly caressing him while nuzzling into a corner of his screen. Another time (one without booze in the vicinity), Tenna would have latched onto him, hard enough to warrant delicious pain, and refused to let go until they were both satiated. Mettaton shivered at the promise of pleasure, at the phantom sensation of claws and fangs finding a home in his body. All the better to return the favor tenfold.
Tenna didn’t do so much as lift a finger now.
“Dunno what I did to deserve this,” he murmured after a spell. “To deserve YOU. Feel like I hit the jackpot with this kinda luck.”
That makes two of us, Mettaton refused to say.
“Sure is something, huh?”
Mettaton raised an eyebrow. “What is?”
“Having something work out in the end.” A beat, then, “For once.”
A smile graced his lips, but it tasted as bitter as the alcohol staining Tenna’s vents. He opted for silence. They both did. Even when Mettaton began humming—to pass the time, to ease the heartache—Tenna offered no commentary. His antennas flitted in response, emitting a spark now and then, but nothing more. Thus Mettaton stayed curled up with him, lulling him to sleep with a made-up melody, because Tenna loved listening to him. Loved everything about him, honestly.
So did Mettaton, including the shadow of a man he used to be.
Halfway through another late-night rerun, Tenna would pass out in his lap. By dawn, he’d wake up, disgruntled and mildly embarrassed about sleeping on the floor backstage. Come nightfall, he’d act like nothing happened the other night, even when Mettaton inquired about his drunken ramblings (again). Business as usual. Out of sight, out of mind. No time to reminisce about the past, for the show must always go on.
That was fine. Mettaton was no stranger to keeping skeletons in a closet. He just... hoped Tenna was happy in the here and now, despite whatever the fuck happened back then—well before he showed up in TV World. And if Tenna forgot, sober or drunk? Well, Mettaton gladly reminded him, no questions asked.