Half of the lack of response was due to anger. You don't speak to loved ones out of tone. You don't worry people with your emotions. You calm down first.
The second half was due to throwing his magitek to the ground and using his boyfriend as a pillow while he took several long hours worth of upset napping.
...so it takes a moment before Mettaton finally responds.
At this point, the anger has boiled over to a familiar numbness. The argument is over. There's nothing that can be fixed. It's time to put a smile back on and keep going forward.
[The thing is, anything could be in this maze. Anything, anyone. It would be bad enough all on its own, just this stupid maze, without people falling apart like this. He hadn't realized how panicked he'd be by radio silence from Mettaton until it happened. And now--]
[Now he finally gets a message back and immediately wants to cry. The answer comes immediately.]
You're okay? You're not hurt? I couldn't find you.
[The star is back in the sky. Which is reassuring in a way that it wouldn't have been a week ago. Being able to see where his people are even from a distance, there's a real appeal to that. He wishes it worked on everyone.]
[For this moment, the most important person is Mettaton. And when Giorno can see him, he just. Throws dignity out the window and runs forward and hugs him as tight as he can.]
[Luckily for Giorno, Mettaton hasn't bothered climbing back to his near-impossible-a-human-to-reach perch. It was a thought, but getting Keats up there would have been a challenge he wasn't in the mood to solve.
And speaking of the man of the hour, there's little Gigi-
Ow. Ow ow ow. Okay. Still hurts. It's fine. It's fine!! It was his core, not his actual stomach. There's no bruise!
It's practiced now, wrapping Giorno in his own arms and holding the boy close. It's easy.
[Ugh, it's so--frustrating. He understands the appeal of distraction, but he was scared, and while the reassurance helps it's not quite what he wants.]
[He doesn't know what he wants. Well, he wants to be allowed to help. But Mettaton won't, will he? And there's this frustration sitting under his chest that he didn't let out at Asher quite in the way he wanted to. Everything's all sideways.]
[He breathes in quick and sharp, squeezes his eyes shut.]
Just let me be happy you're all right without changing the subject for one minute. I didn't know if you were hurt somewhere or--where did you go?
[For a moment, for a split-second that feels like too long, Mettaton doesn't believe his friend. There's a void where there should be understanding that the other was worried. Of course Giorno would be worried. They're friends. Mettaton is the closet thing Giorno has to talking to himself and vise versa. They understand each other. They love each other because they can't love--...
But there's nothing. Recognition that the other should care takes far too long to resurface. He hasn't felt that since he was on the farm, wondering if the only reason anyone cared for him was because he made them happy.]
I'll be alright, Giorno.
I'm just a robot. [Emotionless and sparkling and chrome. Easily replaced with a better, kinder version.]
[His face falls. Just. The thought of Mettaton being just anything is . . . baffling. He unwinds his arms from around Mettaton's waist, but he doesn't move away. Instead, he reaches up and takes Mettaton's face in his hands.]
You're a lot of things. But it's okay if you don't believe that right now.
[Ugliness hurts. Hurt doesn't stop hurting right away, no matter how many times you say you're all right.]
[He wants to make Mettaton a puppy. He wants to shower Mettaton in flowers. He wants to tell Mettaton about the time Bruno Buccellati stole an airplane by asking, very nicely, where the best airplanes were to steal, please. For the moment, he just takes Mettaton's hand in his and swings it between them, back and forth.]
I think you probably won't answer my question. About where you were. I think something might have happened that made you feel even worse, so I won't ask anymore, but--whatever it is, I'm sorry.
[You're even more of a loser than I thought you were. You left! You left, and you never came back, and you never called! Not me, not your cousin, you left Waterfall and everyone in it and you didn't even look back! And then you lied about it?? Maybe if you would stop and think how everyone else feels for once, other people would want to think about how you feel. I can't believe I ever rooted for you. You really are the worst, MTT.
I hope you're happy with that.
"I'm sorry."
His face is static, but his fingers tighten in Giorno's grip. Not enough to hurt. Just to get some bearings.
He can feel tears running along his cheeks. He blinks away the ones gathering in his eyes, still expressionless.]
[Looking at Mettaton really is like looking into a mirror sometimes. Times like these, when even real actual tears aren't enough to break the mask entirely--that's familiar.]
[It hurts, but not like hurt feelings. It hurts like remembering his own old pains. His old mistakes. His feelings were hurt, sort of, but--mostly by Asher. He knows that Mettaton isn't a very good person. That doesn't frighten him. What frightened him, what hurt him, was that . . . deception. The untruth.]
[And that's a hypocritical thing to feel if ever there was one, because what are he and Mettaton but liars? And yet. And yet. It doesn't make sense, and he doesn't care.]
. . . Maybe I shouldn't be. He said a lot of things. I don't know which of them was true and which wasn't and which was half-true, and honestly it doesn't matter. I'm still sorry. Even if it's your fault, even if you deserve it, and I don't know if you do--I don't care. I'm still sorry. I still hate to see you hurt. "Should" doesn't factor into it.
[He doesn't know what to say. It's a kind sentiment. Giorno's always kind, even if he's had to do horrible things in the past. He's kind even though he can be selfish. He's kind because he's been hurt. He's kind because he can see the hurt in others, no matter how terrible they may be.
Mettaton doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve an apology. That thought doesn't feel like it comes from self-pity anymore, not right now. It's just... true. An unfortunate reality of being who he is.
...
He moves to wrap his arms around the boy again. It's warm and sweet, like a reward for refusing to stop caring. It's not much, but Giorno probably doesn't want a production number where Mettaton puts a smile back on and miraculously dances his own pain away.]
[It's perfect. Or as perfect as anything can be in this moment, at least. It's been a bad--while, but Giorno lets himself sink into the hug with the briefest flicker of relief.]
[He doesn't want a production, or a clever joke, or a beautiful smile. He doesn't want entertainment. This is good. Even if he's a little sniffly by the time it's over.]
You give good hugs.
[Different kinds of good hugs. Big and silly, spinning hugs, gentle cradling hugs, hugs that aren't definable because feelings are far away. They're all good.]
[Long, tanned fingers trail through blond hair. The warmth of another body briefly tempers the pain in his chest. Mettaton blinks his eyes again - there's no more tears.
He finds himself picking up Giorno again to move them to a spot to sit. Like days before, lets the other cling and feel whatever he needs to. Like days before, this is clearly all for Giorno's benefit. Giorno doesn't deserved to be weighed down.]
[He fell asleep in Mettaton's arms not so long ago. It is probably strange, he thinks, how comfortingly routine it feels already. Again: he doesn't care. He blinks slowly, drowsing based on habit formed by a single experience, and curls in close. Instinctive.]
You asked me two questions. Which one do you want an answer to?
[Honestly, he doesn't even remember what he asked in the first place. Everything is a numb blur of terrible self-acceptance and a pressing need to black out in a hotel bathroom drinking cake-flavored wine.
Do they make cake-flavored wine...?
He doesn't mind Giorno curling in. He only strokes the other's hair more softly, as if willing him to fall asleep.]
[They make cake-flavored vodka, but it's a mistake.]
[Giorno hums. He takes Mettaton's hand that isn't currently petting his hair and presses his palm to Mettaton's palm, thoughtful. He doesn't want to talk about the guard. He doesn't really want to talk about anything important.]
No progress on the boy troubles. I hope soon to decipher their language. Magitek hasn't helped so far.
[This is more dramatic than is at all warranted, but it seems like what they both need.]
[He looks up at Mettaton with an unreadable expression. A long pause, as he sifts through his emotions. There is gratitude there, but also . . . oh. Why? Above all, he's baffled. Why does Mettaton love him? He has all these created reasons, but Mettaton of all people should see through them.]
[It's a puzzle. Giorno goes back, pulls the gratitude out from where it's been buried under everything else, and holds it close.]
I love you too.
[Mettaton's hand is already in his; it's easy to kiss it, gentle and wondering. It isn't something he would do under any other circumstance, but--they do have an understanding.]
I don't know that it will with stuffy prudes who don't think anyone would want to be gotten by them. Just an instinct.
After all the time trying and failing, someone just... did it.
Mettaton watches his fingers flex, just as expressionless as Gio.
Yes, the gesture is showy. It's fun. A good way for others to gather what silly game Mettaton is usually playing, but it. For so long, it was the only show of affection he could see and therefore pretend to feel. The thought of being respected enough, admired enough for someone to unquestionably offer their lips to a man who couldn't possibly offer his own, could only settle for antiquated signs of chivalry, was something he'd played in his head before the thought of actually getting a body was even feasible. He'd dance around his room in the farm, some human movie playing in the background, and offer his featureless, digitless, ectoplasmic joke-of-a-hand to imaginary strangers and giggle to himself at the thought that they'd take it.
That they'd care enough to press their lips to it.
There's that feeling, again. The feeling of warm water leaking from his eyes. He blinks it away one more time. It's not important.]
You say that, but I've seen it work. [Despite all the chasing on his own part, Keats never stopped being surprised every time it seemed his efforts paid off.] When you're a flame, moths can't help but burn themselves.
[Is that self deprecating? Self blaming? Who knows.]
[Maybe it's both. It makes Giorno's breathing hitch, anyway, half a stifled sob coming out on his inhale.]
I don't want to burn him.
[He could cry. But, when he looks up, he doesn't. Because Mettaton is already crying. He lifts his hands immediately, cups Mettaton's cheeks and wipes those tears away with his thumbs.]
I don't want to burn you either. Does it always have to hurt?
[Being us. Being around us. Loving us. Maybe he means all three.]
[He could lie. That's what he's good for, isn't it? Lying to people who care about him?
Gingerly, he pulls at the hands on his face. He moves them down, enough to be at Giorno's eye-level, and holds them.]
...Yes.
[Electricity begins to dance between Mettaton's hands, phasing right through Giorno's with a strange warmth, but no pain. He loves Giorno too much for his magic to ever cause any damage. But the end result of these bouncing sparks is a small sphere of light hovering between their palms, crackling with energy.]
It's the cost of being a star. You're bright. Radiant. You guide everyone around you. Keep them warm.
[The sphere grows larger. Brighter. Bolts of electricity snake off of it in angry little lines.]
But you burn. Anyone who comes too close will burn. It's the only way your light will ever be seen.
[He drags their hands in together, into the sphere. Again, they phase directly through it until he has both of Giorno's hands pressed together. The magic is warm and tingling.]
And it protects you.
[Then, all at once, the sphere disintegrates. It explodes in a shower of sparks, like a rain of light.]
Anyone who really cares can withstand a little heat.
[Giorno stares. He can't help but stare. It's incredible. No--it's radiant, this thing that Mettaton's made. It's wondrous; it causes him wonder. It's a little bit terrible, because it frightens him, too. Just for a moment.]
[But Mettaton would never hurt him. He knows this, and that's what calms him, allows him to listen instead of pulling his hands away in fear.]
[Mettaton has some kind of wisdom that no one else seems to see. The wisdom of living a long life full of a very specific kind of pain, and pushing that pain away in a very specific manner. Not in the best way, but in the only way that works at the time. And then living with those mistakes.]
[Anyone who really cares can withstand a little heat.]
[The sparks light up Giorno's face for a moment, even as he cradles his hands in the space where the sphere of electricity used to be. He misses it a little. Then he looks up at Mettaton with an expression of naked but very complicated emotion. Lots of things all at once. Just like them.]
It's worth it.
[At least to be near Mettaton. In his opinion. As yet, he isn't so sure about whether the same is true for being near him.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[text | user: METTATON]
Half of the lack of response was due to anger. You don't speak to loved ones out of tone. You don't worry people with your emotions. You calm down first.
The second half was due to throwing his magitek to the ground and using his boyfriend as a pillow while he took several long hours worth of upset napping.
...so it takes a moment before Mettaton finally responds.
At this point, the anger has boiled over to a familiar numbness. The argument is over. There's nothing that can be fixed. It's time to put a smile back on and keep going forward.
Sigh...]
I'm fine, Gigi. No need to worry.
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[Now he finally gets a message back and immediately wants to cry. The answer comes immediately.]
You're okay? You're not hurt? I couldn't find you.
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Really. I'm okay.
You said you found a guard?
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You know where I am.
[The star is back in the sky, after all.]
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[For this moment, the most important person is Mettaton. And when Giorno can see him, he just. Throws dignity out the window and runs forward and hugs him as tight as he can.]
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And speaking of the man of the hour, there's little Gigi-
Ow. Ow ow ow. Okay. Still hurts. It's fine. It's fine!! It was his core, not his actual stomach. There's no bruise!
It's practiced now, wrapping Giorno in his own arms and holding the boy close. It's easy.
Mettaton pats him on the head.]
Now now, it's all fine. How's the boy troubles?
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[Ugh, it's so--frustrating. He understands the appeal of distraction, but he was scared, and while the reassurance helps it's not quite what he wants.]
[He doesn't know what he wants. Well, he wants to be allowed to help. But Mettaton won't, will he? And there's this frustration sitting under his chest that he didn't let out at Asher quite in the way he wanted to. Everything's all sideways.]
[He breathes in quick and sharp, squeezes his eyes shut.]
Just let me be happy you're all right without changing the subject for one minute. I didn't know if you were hurt somewhere or--where did you go?
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[For a moment, for a split-second that feels like too long, Mettaton doesn't believe his friend. There's a void where there should be understanding that the other was worried. Of course Giorno would be worried. They're friends. Mettaton is the closet thing Giorno has to talking to himself and vise versa. They understand each other. They love each other because they can't love--...
But there's nothing. Recognition that the other should care takes far too long to resurface. He hasn't felt that since he was on the farm, wondering if the only reason anyone cared for him was because he made them happy.]
I'll be alright, Giorno.
I'm just a robot. [Emotionless and sparkling and chrome. Easily replaced with a better, kinder version.]
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You're a lot of things. But it's okay if you don't believe that right now.
[Ugliness hurts. Hurt doesn't stop hurting right away, no matter how many times you say you're all right.]
[He wants to make Mettaton a puppy. He wants to shower Mettaton in flowers. He wants to tell Mettaton about the time Bruno Buccellati stole an airplane by asking, very nicely, where the best airplanes were to steal, please. For the moment, he just takes Mettaton's hand in his and swings it between them, back and forth.]
I think you probably won't answer my question. About where you were. I think something might have happened that made you feel even worse, so I won't ask anymore, but--whatever it is, I'm sorry.
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I hope you're happy with that.
"I'm sorry."
His face is static, but his fingers tighten in Giorno's grip. Not enough to hurt. Just to get some bearings.
He can feel tears running along his cheeks. He blinks away the ones gathering in his eyes, still expressionless.]
It was my fault. You shouldn't be sorry.
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[It hurts, but not like hurt feelings. It hurts like remembering his own old pains. His old mistakes. His feelings were hurt, sort of, but--mostly by Asher. He knows that Mettaton isn't a very good person. That doesn't frighten him. What frightened him, what hurt him, was that . . . deception. The untruth.]
[And that's a hypocritical thing to feel if ever there was one, because what are he and Mettaton but liars? And yet. And yet. It doesn't make sense, and he doesn't care.]
. . . Maybe I shouldn't be. He said a lot of things. I don't know which of them was true and which wasn't and which was half-true, and honestly it doesn't matter. I'm still sorry. Even if it's your fault, even if you deserve it, and I don't know if you do--I don't care. I'm still sorry. I still hate to see you hurt. "Should" doesn't factor into it.
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[He doesn't know what to say. It's a kind sentiment. Giorno's always kind, even if he's had to do horrible things in the past. He's kind even though he can be selfish. He's kind because he's been hurt. He's kind because he can see the hurt in others, no matter how terrible they may be.
Mettaton doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve an apology. That thought doesn't feel like it comes from self-pity anymore, not right now. It's just... true. An unfortunate reality of being who he is.
...
He moves to wrap his arms around the boy again. It's warm and sweet, like a reward for refusing to stop caring. It's not much, but Giorno probably doesn't want a production number where Mettaton puts a smile back on and miraculously dances his own pain away.]
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[He doesn't want a production, or a clever joke, or a beautiful smile. He doesn't want entertainment. This is good. Even if he's a little sniffly by the time it's over.]
You give good hugs.
[Different kinds of good hugs. Big and silly, spinning hugs, gentle cradling hugs, hugs that aren't definable because feelings are far away. They're all good.]
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[Long, tanned fingers trail through blond hair. The warmth of another body briefly tempers the pain in his chest. Mettaton blinks his eyes again - there's no more tears.
He finds himself picking up Giorno again to move them to a spot to sit. Like days before, lets the other cling and feel whatever he needs to. Like days before, this is clearly all for Giorno's benefit. Giorno doesn't deserved to be weighed down.]
You never answered me.
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[He fell asleep in Mettaton's arms not so long ago. It is probably strange, he thinks, how comfortingly routine it feels already. Again: he doesn't care. He blinks slowly, drowsing based on habit formed by a single experience, and curls in close. Instinctive.]
You asked me two questions. Which one do you want an answer to?
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[Honestly, he doesn't even remember what he asked in the first place. Everything is a numb blur of terrible self-acceptance and a pressing need to black out in a hotel bathroom drinking cake-flavored wine.
Do they make cake-flavored wine...?
He doesn't mind Giorno curling in. He only strokes the other's hair more softly, as if willing him to fall asleep.]
I don't mind.
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[Giorno hums. He takes Mettaton's hand that isn't currently petting his hair and presses his palm to Mettaton's palm, thoughtful. He doesn't want to talk about the guard. He doesn't really want to talk about anything important.]
No progress on the boy troubles. I hope soon to decipher their language. Magitek hasn't helped so far.
[This is more dramatic than is at all warranted, but it seems like what they both need.]
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For a moment, Mettaton stares at it. His fingers flex, intertwining with the other's.
He should be feeling something. Physically, yes. He feels it. It's just...]
He'll love you. [It's as certain as anything in this world. Siren to siren.] I do.
[Anyway.]
I've heard "hard to get" works with stuffy prudes.
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[It's a puzzle. Giorno goes back, pulls the gratitude out from where it's been buried under everything else, and holds it close.]
I love you too.
[Mettaton's hand is already in his; it's easy to kiss it, gentle and wondering. It isn't something he would do under any other circumstance, but--they do have an understanding.]
I don't know that it will with stuffy prudes who don't think anyone would want to be gotten by them. Just an instinct.
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[Giorno kissed his hand.
Someone... kissed his hand.
After all the time trying and failing, someone just... did it.
Mettaton watches his fingers flex, just as expressionless as Gio.
Yes, the gesture is showy. It's fun. A good way for others to gather what silly game Mettaton is usually playing, but it. For so long, it was the only show of affection he could see and therefore pretend to feel. The thought of being respected enough, admired enough for someone to unquestionably offer their lips to a man who couldn't possibly offer his own, could only settle for antiquated signs of chivalry, was something he'd played in his head before the thought of actually getting a body was even feasible. He'd dance around his room in the farm, some human movie playing in the background, and offer his featureless, digitless, ectoplasmic joke-of-a-hand to imaginary strangers and giggle to himself at the thought that they'd take it.
That they'd care enough to press their lips to it.
There's that feeling, again. The feeling of warm water leaking from his eyes. He blinks it away one more time. It's not important.]
You say that, but I've seen it work. [Despite all the chasing on his own part, Keats never stopped being surprised every time it seemed his efforts paid off.] When you're a flame, moths can't help but burn themselves.
[Is that self deprecating? Self blaming? Who knows.]
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I don't want to burn him.
[He could cry. But, when he looks up, he doesn't. Because Mettaton is already crying. He lifts his hands immediately, cups Mettaton's cheeks and wipes those tears away with his thumbs.]
I don't want to burn you either. Does it always have to hurt?
[Being us. Being around us. Loving us. Maybe he means all three.]
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Gingerly, he pulls at the hands on his face. He moves them down, enough to be at Giorno's eye-level, and holds them.]
...Yes.
[Electricity begins to dance between Mettaton's hands, phasing right through Giorno's with a strange warmth, but no pain. He loves Giorno too much for his magic to ever cause any damage. But the end result of these bouncing sparks is a small sphere of light hovering between their palms, crackling with energy.]
It's the cost of being a star. You're bright. Radiant. You guide everyone around you. Keep them warm.
[The sphere grows larger. Brighter. Bolts of electricity snake off of it in angry little lines.]
But you burn. Anyone who comes too close will burn. It's the only way your light will ever be seen.
[He drags their hands in together, into the sphere. Again, they phase directly through it until he has both of Giorno's hands pressed together. The magic is warm and tingling.]
And it protects you.
[Then, all at once, the sphere disintegrates. It explodes in a shower of sparks, like a rain of light.]
Anyone who really cares can withstand a little heat.
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[But Mettaton would never hurt him. He knows this, and that's what calms him, allows him to listen instead of pulling his hands away in fear.]
[Mettaton has some kind of wisdom that no one else seems to see. The wisdom of living a long life full of a very specific kind of pain, and pushing that pain away in a very specific manner. Not in the best way, but in the only way that works at the time. And then living with those mistakes.]
[Anyone who really cares can withstand a little heat.]
[The sparks light up Giorno's face for a moment, even as he cradles his hands in the space where the sphere of electricity used to be. He misses it a little. Then he looks up at Mettaton with an expression of naked but very complicated emotion. Lots of things all at once. Just like them.]
It's worth it.
[At least to be near Mettaton. In his opinion. As yet, he isn't so sure about whether the same is true for being near him.]