~METTATON, RULER OF THE UNDERGROUND~ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mettaton_rex) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
castle_perrault2017-02-11 06:17 pm
mettaton_rex) wrote in castle_perrault2017-02-11 06:17 pm
Entry tags:
[post deaging] what if your hinges all are rusting
Everything's back to normal.
The hallways are as run-down as ever, the decorations and the music all gone. Mettaton wanders through them, not clear on where he's headed, only knowing he can't bear to keep still. His mind catches up with him, if he tries.
He's himself again. Why doesn't he feel like it?
He made it back to his room last night, after coming to himself again where he'd been stargazing out in the gardens, and after the ensuing bout of hysterical cackling finally wore itself out. At least he's dressed now, ruffled shirt hiding the cracks in his core. More or less - it's buttoned up wrong, letting little glimpses of pink show through. His crown isn't on straight either (the new one, the diamond-studded circlet he found abandoned in a dusty bedroom, not the one he gave up for lost in the library months ago). He's aware of all this. He doesn't plan to fix it.
A door looks familiar. He opens it, and finds himself stepping into the ballroom. There it is, same as ever - grand and empty, tables piled high with confections. Mettaton pauses by one of them, looking up at the massive tiered cake in its centre. And then further up, to a dusty spiderweb hanging from a corner of the ceiling.
"Not so young and beautiful yourself, now, are you?" he hisses, to the room, to the whole awful castle, something hot and vicious boiling up inside him. He raises a leg, braces his foot against the edge of the table. "Nobody wants you any more, darling! Nobody wants to be here! Nobody cares!"
His voice rises to a shout as he kicks, hard, flipping the table over. Cakes and pastries smash against the floor, plates shattering. Mettaton strides into the wreckage, grinding his heel into anything he sees left intact. There's frosting all over his boots. It doesn't matter.
None of it matters now.
The hallways are as run-down as ever, the decorations and the music all gone. Mettaton wanders through them, not clear on where he's headed, only knowing he can't bear to keep still. His mind catches up with him, if he tries.
He's himself again. Why doesn't he feel like it?
He made it back to his room last night, after coming to himself again where he'd been stargazing out in the gardens, and after the ensuing bout of hysterical cackling finally wore itself out. At least he's dressed now, ruffled shirt hiding the cracks in his core. More or less - it's buttoned up wrong, letting little glimpses of pink show through. His crown isn't on straight either (the new one, the diamond-studded circlet he found abandoned in a dusty bedroom, not the one he gave up for lost in the library months ago). He's aware of all this. He doesn't plan to fix it.
A door looks familiar. He opens it, and finds himself stepping into the ballroom. There it is, same as ever - grand and empty, tables piled high with confections. Mettaton pauses by one of them, looking up at the massive tiered cake in its centre. And then further up, to a dusty spiderweb hanging from a corner of the ceiling.
"Not so young and beautiful yourself, now, are you?" he hisses, to the room, to the whole awful castle, something hot and vicious boiling up inside him. He raises a leg, braces his foot against the edge of the table. "Nobody wants you any more, darling! Nobody wants to be here! Nobody cares!"
His voice rises to a shout as he kicks, hard, flipping the table over. Cakes and pastries smash against the floor, plates shattering. Mettaton strides into the wreckage, grinding his heel into anything he sees left intact. There's frosting all over his boots. It doesn't matter.
None of it matters now.
no subject
Of course she did. Because she trusts him! Because they're friends!
Friends don't lie to each other. Friends don't yell at each other, either. Friends don't say hurtful things because they want to lash out and destroy everything in their path. They don't neglect each other or abandon each other, or assume the worst about each other without even thinking to ask whether anything's wrong, or make promises they don't truly want to keep because they think they'll never have the opportunity to break them, anyway.
Mettaton is a very bad friend. The sooner Grune finds that out, the better.
"- no! I'm not all right! I'm not all right at all."
no subject
"What's wrong, dear?"
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"Would you like that?" she asks as she comes to a stop in front of him.
he is going to be so mean to her I'm sorry *facepalm*
Hoo boy. This is going to be a thing.
Then, in a softer voice, she says, "Oh. All right." A pause, then: "I'm sorry."
no subject
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The words come out immediately, before she can even think about them.
Then, softly: "I hope you feel better soon."
She turns to walk away. The clicks of her boot heels echo throughout the ballroom.
no subject
"I'll feel better when you're out of my sight!"
There was no need to say that. She's already leaving. Now he's just seeing how much deeper he can drive the knife in. See? He's not a very nice person at all. This is how he is.
(The more you hurt others, the less you will hurt.)
(It doesn't seem to be working at all.)