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Blinded by his tears, Mettaton slams open Tenna's office door with force enough that the wall behind it splinters and the knob jams into it like a serrated knife shoved into a gut, stuck fast.
A hoarse, static-laced wail that's more like a furious scream rips from his already stinging throat. He grabs the nearest thing and flings it - a vase, probably priceless, shattering at the feet of whatever tear-blurred underlings are stirring around Tenna like a gaggle of spooked geese. They all linger, useless, hesitant and unsure of whether to come to Mettaton's aid or not, fearful of touching or approaching him without explicit permission - especially when he’s so upset and the boss is right there.
“Out. OUT! GET OUT!” Tenna barks at them, practically shoving the gaggle of shadowguys and zappers towards the door til they tumble out into the hall in an ungraceful heap. Extracting the knob from the ruined wall with a hard yank, Tenna slams the door shut violently enough that something along the frame cracks. He doesn’t bother taking the time to lock it - nobody would dare enter unannounced, and he’ll be given a wide berth after Metty’s outburst. Gossip spreads fast in TV World, half for amusement and half for survival.
He walks towards the desk with long strides, at the same time he gathering Mettaton's shaking frame into his arms, steering him to sit on the polished surface and pushing paperwork and trinkets and trophies aside and onto the floor to make room for something far more important.
He sets about checking Mettaton over for signs of injury and tutting quietly as he finds self-inflicted claw marks raked up the length of willowy arms, the metal peeling off in garish coils around the wounds, slicked black with his dove’s ichorous inner fluids.
“Shhh. Shh. What happened? Tell me. Tell me what happened, doll.” Tenna forcibly stills Mettaton's gesticulating and furiously flailing hands as the smaller begins furiously babbling through his sobs - intercepting an attempt to claw at himself again, capturing four slender wrists in four powerful hands of his own to stop harm from being inflicted.
Tenna’s husband shrieks as if agonized by his firm but gentle grip - steely and inescapable. Furious to be denied his outlet, he begins kicking and flailing and flinging himself back onto the desk in a violent tantrum, trying anything he can to vent his emotional agony through pain. His broken soul convulses in his belly - Tenna knows it must hurt terribly, with him worked up into such a state.
Tenna pins him with the bulk of his own frame, and weathers it quietly.
So isolated throughout most of his piteous existence in Hotland and now more akin to a sparrow kept in a securely guarded gilded cage of Tenna’s design where nothing can so much as sneeze at him wrong without drawing ire, Mettaton never learned to properly cope when emotions begin to boil over. It doesn't help that Tenna is so prone to coddling him, loath to be the reason Mettaton suffers any more than necessary - any more than he already has.
Simply put, Tenna’s love is spoiled rotten and has no idea how to cope with discomfort after so long without a modicum of security or tenderness, only to be suddenly swamped in it.
It’s partially his fault - as cozy as it is, as sheltered as it keeps Mettaton, a pretty and lavishly furnished cage is still a cage.
Mettaton is trapped by his possessive, smothering affection, unable to leave Tenna’s domain without a troupe of bodyguards - or the big man himself - following close behind. A protective shadow constantly lurking in step behind him. It can be overwhelming, being constantly watched, observed, guarded.
Eyes always at his back, someone always hovering just behind, in his peripheral vision, to take his coat… or to throw their own over a puddle so his brand new designer latex boots don’t get dirtied by the filth of the street Mettaton is hardly ever allowed to walk on.
A kaleidoscope of strange faces always attending to his every need and inclination before he can even express it, guns strapped to their hips and suspicion thick in the air. Always around him, never allowed to look for too long or get too close, because Mettaton belongs to Tenna - and making the boss jealous over someone eyeing up or getting cozy with his husband isn’t something anyone wants to accidentally do on a random Tuesday.
Tenna knows it can be overwhelming, that it’s possibly excessive, but he just can’t stop. Mettaton is his only soft spot, his only treasure, the only thing he cares about aside from himself. A vulnerability he’ll never allow to be exploited.
Because he can’t allow anything like that to be taken from him ever again.
And so the younger man is a beloved pet in a pretty enclosure. A songbird with a mended wing that will never fully heal. A prized rose with petals carelessly plucked by cruel hands.
He gets everything he wants, except for freedom from Tenna’s smothering and the thick layers of security he’s continually reinforcing around Mettaton.
Except for freedom from the things Tenna can't fix.
Mettaton is prone to hitting, or scratching, biting, or flinging himself down regardless of his surroundings when he gets overwhelmed enough that his brain stops firing on all cylinders and starts clawing inwards, trying desperately to quiet the various sources of overstimulation. A fox caught in a snare, chewing off its own paw.
Mettaton has learned and internalized that pain makes the intensity of it all fall silent if only for a moment, and his outbursts bring attention that often leans towards positive in an attempt to soothe him and keep him from destroying his sophisticated body.
His body - his prison, which for a very long time, he was told was the only valuable thing about him. A source of perpetual pain, his shattered soul caged within, trapped eternally, unable to leave from the moment the first crack was etched into it. Some days, the pain is near enough to drive him mad. Other days, it's merely a soft ache at the edges of Mettaton's awareness.
Every day, it reminds Mettaton of what could have been, and all that was taken from him with each tender spike of hurt and raw pulsation. He doesn't need to suffer more.
Tenna, of course, has always reminded Mettaton that he doesn't have to be even more hurt to be seen, to be cared for. That there's other ways to vent how overwhelmed he is - like inflicting pain and upset back onto the ones who caused it in the first place, or allowing his husband to cuddle him senseless.
Tenna stays by Mettaton's side - on his side - regardless of how the day goes, even when he's so agonized as to start spitting venom and virtriol in every direction.
He pins Mettaton gently to the cold, dark wood of the desk, nuzzling softly at his face with a tickly, warm screen until his wailing trails off into soft, miserable sniffles and his struggles become nonexistent. Til he stops trying to claw himself to bits, to rip his own soul out of his body.
“There… there we go. There you are, little songbird.” Tenna’s grip loosens, no longer as steely, hands drifting upwards to stroke and soothe rather than restrain, thumbs idly petting the cup of each of Mettaton's four palms, eliciting a gentle shiver from the sweet sensation.
“What happened, sweetling?” He croons, voice low and soft in the way it only ever is for his dove, his Metty. He risks releasing his grip on one of Mettaton’s hands and retrieves the first aid kit from his desk with an auxiliary arm, dabbing the claw marks with disinfectant, beginning to slowly, methodically weld the thin, long gashes with enough of a deft hand that they hopefully won't scar this time.
Mettaton hesitates, probably because he knows by now that his words will result in nasty consequences for someone other than himself - but hurt wins out. Lingering wrath spurs him on.
“I heard them talking about me… everyone is always talking bad about me, they're always saying such rotten things, decay spilling from their lips… wagging their bloated corpse tongues and spilling their nasty, pustulent minds...” Mettaton sobs softly, his distress beginning to spiral back up, Tenna warned by the hitching of his unsteady ventilations. He’s a bit more nonsensical than usual - Tenna can tell that he’s been horribly triggered by whatever happened.
“Everyone hates me… everyone despises me… what can I even do? Oh, Ant… tell me what to do… I’m supposed to be a star. I am a star… I’m a star! Everyone should love me. Why don’t they love me?” he hiccups, but doesn't move to embrace Tenna even as his digits continuously curl and uncurl like he's wanting to cling to him - he knows not to move around too much when being patched up, lest he be gently scolded for it.
“I'm not bad… I'm not a bad man… so what if I get a little mad sometimes? Everyone does. Everyone gets a little fucking mad.” Mettaton snarls - a rare slip in the meek, weepy mask he wears when direly upset - a sort of fawning response built by an environment where showing aggression to his creator would’ve resulted in a nasty shock.
He almost immediately dissolves back into quiet sobs - he no longer needs to hide his rage, his violent urges - Tenna tries to encourage him to let loose so he doesn’t become so quickly overwhelmed, but he’s become too accustomed to it to stop.
“I hate them, I hate them all… they're so mean to me. I'm not stupid… I’m not a bimbo, I'm not bad… I'm not bad. I belong here too… I do…”
“Who?” Tenna murmurs, clearly fighting to keep the growl from biting into his voice, trembling with barely restrained rage. Mettaton nuzzles softly into his suit jacket, coos between sobs as Tenna cups his head, urging him closer.
“Why do you care?” Mettaton cries mournfully, knowing it's a low blow - Tenna always cares - he just wants to feel sorry for himself. He just wants to feel small, and hurt. Tenna cringes at his tone, but clutches him closer, smooths a hand down the soft curve of Mettaton’s spine to settle at his lower back, petting the hollow there gently and slowly with his thumb.
“You're mine, doll. I take care of what's mine.” Tenna leans in, the ozonic citrus chill of his cologne thick in Mettaton's sensors despite his olfactory input being so clogged and syrupy from weeping profusely. He releases his waist and instead cups Mettaton's face in two hands, forcing the younger to meet his gaze, thumbs firmly stroking over the softness of his pale cheeks, wiping away inky smudges of running mascara. The feeling of being something tiny and broken and feeble begins to ebb, replaced by a gentle comfort.
Tenna looms. Anyone else would be fleeing in terror, but Mettaton retreats into him, using him as shelter from the outside world - he'd crawl straight into his suit jacket if he thought he might fit without stretching and tearing the expensive fabric. Tenna's presence is a balm to him, where others find it smothering… to Mettaton, it's like being wrapped in a weighted blanket.
His heart aches still. Tenna kisses him softly, lingering for a moment.
“Your gloves…” Mettaton sobs helplessly, cupping Ant’s hands in return, red latex gloves squeaking quietly in the still office as he squeezes tight. Trying to find something else to focus on other than the terrible hurt still chipping away at his already shattered heart.
He’s so soft around the edges, even if he has a little bit of bite to him - a little bit of feistiness. Tenna needs to keep sheltering him, can never let anything maim or scar his soft heart again, certain as ever that Mettaton would never survive in such a dog-eat-dog world without him there. “You're ruining them… they're so lovely, and you're ruining them for something like me.”
It's not about the gloves - they both know it.
“I've got more. I'd ruin a thousand to wipe your tears.”
Soft static brushes Mettaton's trembling lips again, and a quiet sigh escapes him, shuddering and barely audible, as his ventilation systems start to reset. He leans forward, head thumping against Tenna's chassis, hair product staining the fine, dark silk of his suit.
As soon as he quiets though, the memory provokes another bout of helpless sobs. The humiliation is too thick, too fresh.
“Look up.” Tenna's voice is commanding, stern around the edges - Mettaton knows what he'll find there - he looks up anyways, eager to surrender to the comfort that only his husband can give.
A dark spiral weaves into the fabric of his processor with marked warmth, gently parting it like the pages of a novel, soothing out the hurt like a physical massage, blotting out the undesirable as easily as Ant takes a sharpie to paper and redacts information. The world around them fades from existence, swallowed by an inky fuzz overtaking the edges of Mettaton's vision. He feels something stroking his bottom lip, warm and tender - Ant is keeping a grasp on his chin, preventing him from looking away from that slow descent even if he wanted to.
The bliss of utter contentment settles into his nervous body so potently that his seemingly eternal trembling stops, even if only for the moment, like he’s been given a desperately needed hit of an illicit substance. His mind slows to a syrupy, vacant flow.
Mettaton has always been skittish at heart, plagued by cowardice and foul memories. Tenna is the only thing that can bring him complete peace and quiet, still his racing thoughts. Within his belly, the aching throb of his broken soul slows to a dull thunk-thunk, no longer stinging so harshly around the jagged edges. It'll never stop hurting entirely, but for the moment it's enough.
“That's it… does it feel nice? It feels good to just sink… to surrender.”
Mettaton sighs softly again, this time it's a release of held breath, and Tenna sweeps him off his feet just as his legs give out and he starts to slide from his perch on the desk, carrying him bridal style to his desk chair and setting him on the indulgently plush leather.
A mascara smudged glove combs through his slicked-down hair, mussing it in a way he doesn't have the presence of mind anymore to throw his usual tantrum about.
“Now… I want you to be a good babydoll and tell me everything. Spare no detail…”
Mettaton feels his lips moving, hears his own voice reciting the incident, the hurt. But he's a million miles away, sheltered from feeling the brunt of it all over again in the warmth of Tenna's spiral gaze. Finally satisfied, his husband backs off, giving his head another fond stroke.
“Good…. Stay. Rest.” He commands softly, and the spiral weaves the command into his thought processes until even an inkling of disobedience out of bratty standoffishness is nothing more than a fleeting memory.
Footsteps drift away distantly, like an echo floating down a long hall. Mettaton's eyelids feel heavy, vision tunneled around the edges, fuzzy with static.
Consciousness drips out of him like something physical, like it's oozing from his veins, slow and serene and syrupy thick as it leeches out of him til he's melting back into Tenna's desk chair with a coo, inhaling the lingering scent of his husband.
Everything feels warm, and good. Fuzzy around the edges like existence itself has been dipped in melted rainbow sherbet and buffered with tufts of soft sunset clouds.
He doesn't know how much time has passed when his Tenna returns. He might've fallen asleep.
His tears have long since dried, a thick digit pets softly under his chin to retrieve his attention and Mettaton looks up, bleary and plagued by lingering exhaustion. Tenna's screen is no longer spiraling - instead replaced with a too-wide, pissed grin on a darkened screen.
Mettaton nearly flinches at the sight of it, if not for the fact it quickly becomes apparent it's not him that has earned Tenna's ire this evening.
A group of pippins kneels before the desk on Tenna’s nice persian rug, shaking and so pale they look half turned to stone, some of them bruised from rough handling. Mettaton almost feels sorry for them.
Almost.
One of them is the pippins from earlier. The one who hurt his feelings with such sour, cold, ill-spoken words, wagging their tongue freely and thinking he wasn't around to hear them as they crept around behind the curtains of soundstage 4. They meet his gaze, pleading, silently apologetic but only out of self preservation.
Mettaton smirks nastily back at them. Tenna looms behind the chair he sits in, leaning down over the back of it and gripping his shoulders possessively, kneading in a steady reassurance of his presence.
Mettaton's not a mean man, a bad man - but he does have a spiteful streak a mile wide, and he does hold a grudge like it's his day job. After all, he just wants to be treated kindly. It's not too much to ask.
“Point them out, doll. I'll take care of everything else. We can't tolerate any disrespect towards the Consort of Screens, now can we?”
The employees filling the room murmur in quiet agreement, some more enthusiastic than others. Even the ones knelt on the carpet join in, although far more sedately.
Mettaton idly twirls an inky curl around his gloved digit, hesitating in a way that's more performative than anything genuine. Pretending to be a dumb bimbo, as the pippins dubbed him. Mocking them.
“Uhmm~”
Tenna squeezes his shoulders softly, his screen brushes the top of Mettaton's head in a rare show of affection - as good as public affection. Sending a message to whoever survives this that Mettaton is his, under his protection, his priority above all else - telling observers that they're a unified front. “Take your time. Get a good look.”
Mettaton slips from the chair, from Tenna's grasp - but the man follows him, a silent shadow as always, a looming protector. Shadowguys line the room, tommy guns locked and loaded - prepared to fill anything that so much as looks at him wrong with an unhealthy dose of lead that's incompatible with their continued existence.
Mettaton feels silly for letting anything, especially a snotty little rat, make him feel small and helpless again. Because he feels powerful. Drunk on it.
He'll never be helpless ever again. Not with the most powerful man in this dark world wrapped around his little finger.
The click of his heels is muffled by Tenna's office rug, Mettaton paces back and forth in front of the lineup as if he actually needs to ponder his choice. Every so often he stops in front of a random pippins, just to fuck with them and see them flinch - enjoying how Tenna smirks and relishes in his returned playfulness, occasionally giving a fond chuckle at his antics.
"Eenie, meenie, miney, moe..." Mettaton murmurs to himself perfomatively, and Tenna barks a laugh.
They have all day. Neither of them is in any rush, and Tenna is clearly thrilled to see him partaking in a game yet again - because it means that his mood has improved beautifully.
Finally, he stops in front of the real culprit, and taps their ugly little head with a click of gloved claws in a neat, quick rhythm.
“I think…” Mettaton begins, only to be cut off with the audacity only a creature sentenced to death would have. Interrupting him. Like his words don't matter. Like he isn’t literal royalty here in this wonderful world of Tenna’s.
“Sir, please, it was a mistake - I didn't mean it, I was just venting - it was gossip!”
“Why are you begging me? I’m not the one you insulted.”
Tenna doesn’t humor the attempt beyond that. He snaps his fingers, and snags Mettaton from behind just as a group of shadowguys split from the line along the wall. His husband clutches him close, covering his ears firmly - second pair of arms emerging again and shielding his eyes.
Tenna's voice, raised, is fuzzy through the static being poured into Mettaton's ears - physical censorship, just for him. He's sensitive, after all. A porcelain doll, something to be treated sweetly lest it shatter.
Tenna has never liked exposing him to the grittier parts of the business, even when Mettaton does participate - much preferring to keep him at the top of things and out of the muck and blood of it all - dripping with jewels instead of gore and clad in furs, sipping acid champagne without a worry in the world and spoiled rotten to the point of acrid sweetness.
A muffled ripple of rapidfire gunshots is next once the yelling dies down - Mettaton still flinches, even after all this time. Tenna’s screen brushes the top of his head. He shifts, and his boot slips in something wet before Tenna stabilizes him.
Tenna lifts him into a bridal carry yet again, still covering his ears, keeping Mettaton's face pinned into the crook of his neck - sheltered from all but the cloying metallic scent of dust and blood now hanging heavy in the air, pungent enough to punch through the haze of Tenna's cologne. He shudders softly, and Tenna’s hand smooths down his back, stilling the shivers.
Mettaton knows better than to try and sneak a look before they leave. Ant doesn't like that.
“Dinner. What do you want?” the man pulls out a handkerchief to wipe something wet and warm off of Mettaton's left shoe and then redirects with an offer of a rare treat, an actual outing at a place not owned by his husband. “Let's hit the town, songbird. Anywhere. Name it, and we'll go.”
Mettaton ponders quietly, digits fiddling idly with the lapels of Tenna's suit as he's carried down the long hall to their bedroom suite, willing himself to no longer taste the lingering tang of a bloody mist filtering through his vents. Now that spite has faded, he’s left feeling a bit hollow by how things played out for reasons he can’t quite name.
“I don't know…” he finally decides - the same response as always. Tenna just nods, patiently, having expected as much. Mettaton, for all his want of independence, is ultimately more comfortable with having decisions made for him by someone he actually trusts. It’s what he’s grown used to now, after all. The novelty of choice is always available should he choose to grasp it, but still something frightening and overwhelming.
“I'd like it if you wore the new white dress - and the diamonds.” Tenna murmurs softly, voice gentled by lack of an audience.
Mettaton nods sagely. Tenna has always liked him in white. Something pristine and soft, like the driven snow outside the studio, or a tuft of cotton gauze not yet dirtied by a thick crust of coagulated blood.
A physical display for others to admire - a show of how well Ant cares for him, keeping him impeccably soft and sheltered, secured away from his lonely past and far from the dirtier parts of the business, where he doesn’t need to do anything but sit and look pretty and enjoy his new life.
Tenna has always liked picking out his outfits, dressing him up like a beloved doll, draped with symbolism and finery. A soothing ritual for both of them.
He sets Mettaton down on the padded chair in their expansive closet and queues up the classical music channel on his screen - letting the soothing sound of piano drift through the space.
Then he sets about dressing his love, immediately selecting the white gown sewn from fine, soft fabric that won't irritate Mettaton's easily overstimulated sensors, along with a white fur coat, a pair of white heeled boots, and four white silk gloves.
Tenna hesitates for a moment when it comes time to pick out accessories, attention snagged by the set of lustrous black pearls that he gifted to Mettaton last winter festival and the sapphire set that was a gift from Queen, but ultimately opting for the thick cuts of diamond that glitter like stars.
He dresses Mettaton methodically, carefully, each warm touch like the kiss of a feather.
Then he steps aside to let Mettaton style his own hair and makeup, setting to work changing his own suit and replacing his dark-stained gloves.
“Feeling better, turtledove?” he asks quietly, shrugging on a dark jacket and buttoning it primly with neat, practiced motions, catching Mettaton's eye in the mirror as the younger man applies a too-thick coat of mascara.
“... A bit.” Mettaton admits softly, brushing a bit of hair from his face to better see his sightless eyes. “Would you ever do me like that, Ant?”
“What?” Tenna pauses, voice hard around the edges, and when their gaze meets again through the vanity mirror, his screen is dark. Impossible to parse.
“Would you get rid of me? Have me shot down like that?” Mettaton asks, voice airy and soft spoken as usual, a stark mismatch with the severity of his inquiry.
“No.”
They both sit in silence for a moment, knowing it's not the full reply. Waiting for it to come. The other shoe to drop. Mettaton frowns.
“Would you give me a reason to?”
“No…”
“Then no, doll. I wouldn't.” Tenna leans down to brush a kiss to his cheek. Mettaton feels a bit cold inside, hollow and brittle. His soul hurts again. “C’mon. Let's get some dinner in you. Don't think of lonely things like that… I don't like how thin you're getting. Stop skipping lunch.”
“I forget…” Mettaton argues softly, without any bite to it - the same song and dance as always.
“I know, doll… I know.”
He takes Mettaton's hand, kissing it gently across the knuckles, letting the gesture carry his devotion across as he helps him up, and leads him from the closet.
Mettaton follows him, like always.