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“It’s not that I don’t trust you, darling, really-”
“Just a little further! I promise! No peeking!”
“I know no peeking, I know, my gosh, you’ve only said it fifteen times by now..”
Mettaton’s arms struggle to find a place to land. They’ve been switching between a few things: holding onto Tenna’s arms, hovering over the large hands currently resting (as gently as possible) over Mettaton’s eyes, or splaying out cautiously in front of them both so as to not hit any walls or other obstructions.
They’ve managed to not make too many stumbles so far, but Mettaton understands the clumsy nature of his lover far too well; he’s the type to involuntarily fling something across the room that’s been clutched in his palm for several minutes, and Mettaton’s seen for himself the dents that tend to litter Tenna’s plating from bumping into everything all the time. The man is no stranger to the repair shop, poor fella. He can’t help his bulky frame.
That frame sticks very closely to Mettaton’s back as he is led blindly through the hallways of the studio. He thought he’d known his way around this place like the back of his hand by now, but apparently there’s something new that Tenna is so excited to show him, the man feels the need to cover his eyes until they enter.
Suddenly, they come to a stop, and Mettaton thinks he can hear some literal gears turning.
“Okay, well. Just- ah. Uno momento. Keep your eyes, uh,” Tenna removes his hands from Mettaton’s eyes and instead drapes his entire forearm around the front of the other robot’s face, giving him a noseful of expensive cologne. The hold squeezes the back of Mettaton’s head against Tenna’s chest as the old man awkwardly fumbles for a set of keys in his pockets.
“Tenna!” Mettaton chuckles through a gasp. “I can just keep them closed myself if you ask me nicely!”
“Just gottaaa… it’s the one with the… bingo!”
Mettaton hears the clinking and jingling of metal and then Tenna’s leaning them both forward to shove a key into a keyhole. He holds Mettaton slightly off to the side.
“So forward, manhandling me like this and taking me to a restricted area...”
Tenna sputters in offense and playfully shimmies his partner around in his grasp. Mettaton giggles out protests and folds his knee up as his boyfriend supports his weight.
“It is not like that! Don’t be bawdy!”
They both share little laughs and Mettaton hears the sound of a door clicking open. Keys are shoved back into a pocket and a warm palm curls around his waist (a feeling that never fails to make his heart thump). Tenna stands beside him now, guiding him through the rather wide doorframe with just one hand covering his eyes. The TV host shuts the door behind them with his hips.
Mettaton immediately notices the echo of the sound when it fills up the new space entirely. He feels a crisp coolness in the air and breathes in the scent of dust, old fabric, and something distinctly metallic.
Tenna brings them a few steps forward — leather loafers softly padding on velvety carpet.
“Now,” he leans his screen down to speak right over Mettaton’s shoulder. “Open.”
The hand is released from Mettaton’s face and he lets his eyes flutter open. He has to adjust to the darkness around them for a moment, but his gaze instantly lands on the center of the room, where a warm spotlight shines. His lips part with a gasp and he brings his gloved hand up to his chestplate.
“Oh my stars,” he breathes. Around them are rows and rows of auditorium seats. Right in their path are stairs leading down towards the foot of a stage — and spotlighted on the center of the stage is a sleek, black, shimmering grand piano. The particles of dust in the air catch the light like drifting snow, and the maple wood floors look worn and well-loved.
The corners of Mettaton’s mouth curl into a laugh of disbelief. His body moves on its own, removing itself from Tenna’s arms and gliding down the steps. He runs his hand along the center steel railing and twirls around until he’s walking backwards, looking up at the continuous rows of seats above their heads. Every tooth in his mouth is on display, unable to control the wideness of his grin.
“Anthony!”
“Yeah?”
The host still stands at the top of the staircase with his hands cheekily clasped behind his back and his wire tail swinging back and forth.
“Anthony!!”
“Yeah?!” He’s grinning just as wide.
Mettaton only replies with a giddy laugh and begins running down one of the aisles of folded seats like a child on a playground. He stops to unfold one of them and removes a glove to glide his metal fingertips against the heavy-duty polyester. The robot plops himself down and tries it out for size, getting a good feel of the vintage fabric underneath his thighs.
“UGH!” He shouts before sliding his glove back on and continuing down the aisle.
Tenna watches and chuckles with amusement and adoration, descending the steps much slower than the other. He takes this time to casually reach into a different pocket and light one of his smokes.
When Mettaton reaches the end of the aisle, he prances down even more stairs until he’s at the foot of the stage. He lifts his hand to feel the surface of it, wiping away a thin layer of dust before plopping his silicone cheek against the cold floorboard. “Oh, I could just kiss it…” He hears another chortle ring off the walls from Tenna’s position on the center staircase.
Mettaton soon finds the small set of stairs leading up to the stage itself and he all but flies up there, spinning in delight. He relishes in the clacking sound of his heels on the wood and does a little footwork dance just to hear it some more. Then, the piano is remembered, and he’s at its side like lightning. He slides his fingertips all over it, practically drapes himself over it, clearing the poor paint of its old grime.
“You divine thing…”
The timeless beauty of it all has him reeling, and soon enough he’s falling gracefully onto his back near the edge of the stage, letting one leg hang off the side as he beams up at the high ceiling.
Only then is Tenna finally near him again, leaning over from the orchestra pit with a cigarette between his fingers and gazing at the heaving robot.
“I take it you don’t like it?” the bastard says.
Mettaton sits up breathlessly and stretches a metal arm out to grip Tenna’s shoulder.
“You hid this from me?! Why is it not being used!”
“It used to be! But nobody’s rented it out for ages!” Tenna places his hand atop Metta’s. “Nobody really pays it any mind anymore, since it’s kind of under the studio, and everyone’s always busy with TV Time! It’s also kind of hard to film in here, and boy, we tried. Something about outlets or outdated tech.”
Mettaton listens in awe.
“But darling, it’s beautiful.”
“I know! It’s a darn shame.”
“It is a tragedy!”
Moved, Mettaton is up on his feet again. His arms extend further from their sockets and wrap themselves around Tenna’s torso. Tenna yelps, always surprised by the strength and flexibility of his love’s mechanical limbs, and raises his arms as he’s somehow lifted onto the stage. The act still seems to take a good bit of effort, for the metal tubes quickly retract to their normal length and Tenna is sent stumbling forward. Before they can both crash to the floor, Tenna plants one foot forward and reaches a sturdy arm to clutch the small of Mettaton’s back. A hot pink boot-clad leg kicks upward to press against Tenna’s hip for balance, and those metal arms wrap themselves around the CRT’s neck.
Tenna’s eyebrows shoot up and the side-edges of his screen glow pink. Mettaton just keeps grinning, now with wide eyes.
“My goodness! You feel it too, don’t you? This atmosphere just makes you want to dance!” Mettaton cranes his neck backwards and stretches a hand out, making himself at home in this fashionable little pose they’ve fallen into.
“I guess it does!” Tenna laughs nervously. “Golly, that would’ve been a nasty fall.” He reels the smaller robot in so they can be upright again, but Mettaton grabs the hand clutching his back and holds it above his head. He twirls himself around and presses his shoulders into the host’s front. Tenna lets it happen, and holds his cigarette away from their faces.
“What a waste… everything this place could be used for. Audiences packed like sardines for a live performance… no cameras, no retakes, no broadcast… just raw talent for an exclusive audience. Raw art — music stripped naked!”
Mettaton releases himself from the embrace with a spin and approaches the piano once more. He dances his middle and index fingers along the edge where the keys are framed. His black hair drapes over his shoulder as he looks back over at Tenna with sad eyes.
“Look how lonely it is, Anthony. Abandoned, begging to be loved.” He sighs dreamily. “I couldn’t love it right. I don’t know how to play.”
Tenna moseys closer and rubs the back of his neck.
“I played for people every now and again, back in my day.”
Metta’s eyebrows fly upwards and his head snaps to look Tenna in the face. This man — this famous, sweet man, free of his red jacket and waistcoat after a long day of incredible hosting, looking all suave with his cig and tie and classy shoes — can also play piano?
Without a word, Mettaton aggressively points at the piano keys, and his expression screams that he’s not going to take no for an answer.
“Don’t hold out on me, handsome.”
Tenna shakes his head, but sheepishly complies. He rests his cigarette between his teeth and rolls the sleeves of his button-down to rest above his forearms. He lifts the sturdy little black bench and places it to make enough room for himself — dusts the plush leather off and sits down. His fingers lift to hover over the keys.
Mettaton waits, hands clasped, with anticipation thrumming through his circuits.
“Bear with me, it’s been a while. Let’s see here, something like a…”
Ever the showman, Tenna immediately springs into a jazzy, incredibly skilled rendition of the Mr Ant. Tenna’s TV Time! jingle. Mettaton’s jaw drops to the floor as the man finishes it off with a snazzy rapid repeat of the final chord.
The shorter robot squeals and has to playfully smack Tenna’s forearm. “Shut up!”
“Yowch!” Tenna clutches his arm, grinning, as if that could ever hurt him.
“Oh, I just played for people every now and again-”
“And I told the truth! Cross my heart!” Tenna removes the cigarette from his mouth. “But, I also… practice alone every once and a while. So, teensy lie of omission there!”
“You trickster! Oh, my love,” Mettaton bounces on his heels and leans down to push the side-casing of Tenna’s head against his lips for a smooch. “You simply must continue!”
The pink in Tenna’s cheeks burns redder.
“Alright, fine. Only for you..” The man pats the top of the piano. “Have a seat, sweetheart!”
“Really?!” Metta claps his hands excitedly. He’s always wanted to do this. He extends his arms and climbs atop the instrument as carefully as possible. It takes a bit of shuffling to sit comfortably atop the closed lid, but he figures it out, crossing his legs and resting his heels in front of the fallboard. From here, he gets the most precious view of what Tenna will look like tickling away.
For a moment, they just look at each other. Tenna has to clear his throat.
“This is, uh… a lot more distracting!”
“Come onnnn,” Metta taps the back of Tenna’s hand with the tip of his boot.
“Okay, uh…”
Tenna begins to play a slow, jazzy melody. Mettaton glues his eyes to how those fingers sweep back and forth. His body leans forward without intending to do so. A moment passes before Mettaton gasps with the realization that he knows this song. He realizes at just the perfect moment, right where the vocals come in.
“Look at me…”
Mettaton watches as Tenna’s grin widens around his cigarette and he can feel the CRT’s invisible gaze on him.
“I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree…”
For the next few minutes, the two of them sway back and forth as Tenna’s almost professional playing accompanies Mettaton’s voice. There are moments where Tenna presses a wrong note or Metta even forgets a lyric, but they just chuckle it off and keep going.
The song finishes off with a beautiful concluding sequence of notes from Tenna before he’s removing his foot from the pedal and digging in his shirt pocket for his mini portable ashtray. He puts out what little is left of the cigarette, shuts the little metal case closed and puts it away.
Then, he’s looking up at Mettaton’s face. The other robot looks like he’s about ready to set up camp and live in this underground auditorium forever.
Tenna reaches for one of Mettaton’s gloved hands resting against the beautiful painted wood and brings it closer for a staticky kiss.
“Your voice is beautiful, doll. Unlike anything I’ve ever heard.”
Mettaton’s innards suddenly feel like they’re lit on fire. He uses his free hand to fan himself.
“You old cad. I could say the same about your playing, darling, really…” He bounces his crossed leg over the other. “We really ought to come here more often. We can’t just let all this sit here.” Mettaton glances over at the rest of the huge room.
“I could leave it all up to you. To host whatever you like.”
Mettaton faces him again, bewildered.
“You’d let me?”
“Sweetheart, I’ll fund you!”
“Oh, Ten, don’t make promises you can’t keep…”
“I’m serious!”
Tenna stands up from the piano bench and tucks it back in. Without any warning, he scoops Mettaton up from his seat and wraps the star’s legs around his waist. Mettaton hangs on for dear life, laughing and snorting away as he’s continuously spun across the stage and bent over Tenna’s shoulder.
“Be- be careful! How in the world are you so spry at this age?!”
“Just givin’ you a good long look! This is aaalll yours!”
They continue teasing and flouncing around in that auditorium for at least an hour before returning to work in the upstairs studio. Tenna really is serious about planning events down there and wanting his incredible co-star at the forefront of it all.
It’s safe to say that the piano stays dust-free for a long time.