Chapter Text
They had the feeling that the people who ran concerts had never dealt with something like this before. The managers and the sound crew and all the other people with jobs Frisk couldn’t guess at all looked harried, hurrying back and forth but not really doing much.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Mettaton said, leading them back to the dressing room. “The show will go on. These are professionals, even if they’re being a bit silly at the moment. You’d think the directions I gave would have been obvious.”
Another sign that they were out of their depth: the dressing room (which was huge, like a fancy hotel room) was soon crowded with delivery workers bringing food Mettaton couldn’t eat. (They clung to his side until the room was clear, disliking the sideways glances they were getting.) He may not have looked like a real robot, like the ones online, but he was metal, right? A kind of metal that moved like a person, but still metal; he echoed when Frisk knocked on him and didn’t mind.
“Oh, don’t sit on your hands, darling. I got this for you.” Mettaton swept an overlong arm over the table. “The concert’s going to last well into the night, and I don’t want you neglected. Look, isn’t this nice? They brought the edible glitter I asked for. It’ll look like you’re eating stars!” Sprinkling silvery blue glitter onto a pizza slice seemed a little odd to Frisk, but that was just how Mettaton was. Everything shining and pretty, all the time.
“Here, you have your dinner while I check on the sound setup. It needs to be very particular; can’t go disappointing all those fans.” With a chilly kiss to their forehead, Mettaton swept out of the room, leaving them to stare at enough food for a week, not knowing where to begin. Pizza was fine, even glittery, but was that an actual steak in a takeout box? Someone had packed a steak knife in the bag with it, and just looking made their hands itch.
Think of all the things they could do with that knife. To themself, to the people running around outside. To the world. Would that make Mom happy? Would that help?
No. Maybe they were a bad child for thinking it, possibly the worst, but their arms were still covered with hardened scabs, and they were running out of room for more. Just one night to themself. Mom and Dad would understand; one night was nothing to them. Right?
Was there any way to get rid of it? As much as they wanted to drop it out a window, someone might get hurt, and touching the knife just to move it away could lead to... accidents. But they couldn’t just leave it there, shining on the table, something weird and dark moving in the reflection in the metal, even though it was a completely still and bright room—
“Pumpkin, you’re not eating. Do I need to call for something different? There’s plenty of time, and I can get it on rush. Whatever you want.” Mettaton came over to their side, and his voice was enough to unfreeze them. They buried their head against his side, the cold metal soothing against their cheek.
“There’s a knife,” they mumbled, pointing. Not wanting to say more, to tell him all the things that could happen. Saying it aloud would make it real.
“Oh. Do you want me to cut your steak for you? Is that it?” His arm began to extend, and he reached over to it.
“No! No, don’t!” Anything else they could have said was overpowered by a round of crying, and they pulled away—couldn’t get Mettaton all snotty when he was about to do a concert. What sort of terrible friend were they? But they couldn’t let it get any closer. Something terrible would happen.
“Shhh, shhhhhhh.” Out of him, the shushing was mostly static, but it was still somehow comforting. “Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll fix it.” Despite how calm he sounded, Mettaton looked freaked out, and they had to wonder how many kids he had ever been around before them.
“Can you, um. Please get rid of the knife? I don’t want the steak, just...”
“That’s fine, sugar. That’s no problem at all.” Mettaton patted them on the head, and then he was scooping up the steak knife and dropping it into a discarded bag. They ducked their head not to look, but from the clattering and shuffling, it sounded like he had found more than one? Or he had gathered up the butter knives too. Mettaton stalked to the door of the dressing room and called out to the first person who passed to get rid of the bag. They must have gone with it, because he strutted back empty-handed.
“Is that better?” They nodded, rubbing at their damp cheeks until he gave them a cloth napkin that looked too expensive to wipe anything with. There was still a clawing, empty pit in their chest, but the knives were gone, and they were safe to eat glitter-dipped cheese fries while Mettaton stroked their head, humming and texting something, probably to the concert people.
Outside, they could hear the crowds of people getting louder and louder, snatches of singing and laughing. Most of them were already there with tents and fold-out chairs when Mettaton and Frisk got to the concert hall, thankfully driving to a side entrance so no one noticed them; the screaming would have been awful. Thousands of people and more arriving with each minute. It was making them antsy, and they weren’t even the one performing.
“I’ll need to go take the stage soon, darling. Let me give you a song, to get my vocals warmed up.” They set aside their fries and tried, unsuccessfully, to wipe the grease and glitter off before squirming into his lap.
Mettaton had held a few concerts, both underground and above, and they had yet to be allowed to go to any of them. Too loud, too crowded, too adult, too past their bedtime, as if he cared about that any other time. There’s something about his performances that he doesn’t want them to see.
But he’ll sing to them privately, so quiet that no one walking by outside would hear. The words don’t make any sense, some language that almost sounds like English if you could just listen hard enough, and by that time, listening so close makes them feel like they’ve dipped their head underwater, all the sounds distorted and far away. It sounds like something people sing in church, and they wondered Mettaton didn’t sing this way to the rest of the world, only them.
And then, they didn’t wonder anything at all, their eyes lolling closed, watching the colors bloom in the dark, so secure in his metal arms, secure in the fact that the future was so close, that Mom and Dad were waking up, that the monsters were coming—
“Ah, did that put you to sleep?” Mettaton helped them sit up and onto the couch. Extending his arm out, he snatched a fresh napkin off the table and dabbed at their upper lip. “My song’s that good, hm?” It wasn’t that much blood, just a dribble, but Mettaton diligently wiped it up anyway. And, like he always did with paper cuts and nosebleeds and skinned knees and wobbly uncertain cuts, he neatly folded the bloody napkin up and tucked it away in a hidden compartment in his wrist. They knew if their nose started bleeding again, they would save it for him.
“It’s nearly time for the show. It’ll be hours, so don’t stay awake too late, okay? Have some snacks, watch your videos.” Nodding, they slipped on the headphones he had bought them, as expensive and noise-canceling as he could find. They could watch all the cartoons and nature videos they wanted, and not even a hint of the concert would bleed through. The world went blissfully silent, and they couldn’t hear Mettaton’s words, though the meaning was obvious: I love you.
I love you too, they mouthed back. With a final hug, he was out the door, fifty thousand humans to sing the future to.