~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
My friend. My - creator.
[Since he's calmed down enough to realise this girl probably won't have guessed his secret.]
The brilliant Doctor Alphys.
no subject
Oh? She sounds very nice. What is she like?
[She prompts him gently. This person seems important. Important enough for him to stop smashing things, apperantly. ]
no subject
[It's meant with the deepest affection.]
And she really is brilliant. The smartest person I know. And funny. And she doesn't appreciate herself enough - I never appreciated her enough -
[He's starting to sound distressed again, hands tightening into fists at his sides.]
no subject
[She smiles, encouragingly but her face falls as he grows more distressed.]
I don't think I appreciate her enough either...
[Theres a feeling maybe once, that they might have never seen eachother again. Or at least for a long time. Its barely a fragment of a memory, something slipping through the cracks in her airy little head but it somehow understands ]
Even...even if they're gone. Or your gone. You...you can still appreciate her! You can appreciate somebody even if they aren't there! You just have to know your fighting for them, right? That you'll do anything for their memory!
no subject
[Uh-oh. That hit a nerve. He glares at her, focus snapped back from wherever he'd drifted off to.]
She's just missing! She just - isn't speaking to me any more, that doesn't mean she's...