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“Oooh, Tenna…” Mettaton sighs, tracing a gentle, semi-opaque finger around a CRT dial. “How many more music videos do you have for me to watch? Your supply seems endless.”
Yesterday, less than twenty-four hours ago, Mettaton had been gifted his now most prized treasure. His CRT. Tenna, as that girl Susie had called him. A handsome little piece of technology… of course Mettaton had spent all of the night creeping well into the morning glow fawning over him and all his salacious programming. As gentle golden light seeped through his curtains, a warmth of companionship filled his aching, lonely SOUL to finally be given the gift of entertainment to cure his ennui.
If he’s tired, he can’t feel it. There’s a delightful twist in his gut, a buzzing sensation in his head that keeps his woes trapped away in a deeper part of his mind. Tenna is a lovely companion… he’s spent the nighttime hours showing him all sorts of lovely programs. Mettaton’s well-acquainted with each channel, by now; the aerobics channel, the music channel, the cooking channel, the old western channel, the romance channel, and an abundance of old reruns he’s never seen. Tenna’s dial has been twisted to every channel his antennae can seek out. Who would get rid of such a wonderful thing? The dust that lines the corners and seams of Tenna’s casing, the burn-in and bruises of tech once well-loved, it all makes his SOUL quiver. Anything that makes Mettaton feel like this should be loved and cherished. He’ll make sure Tenna only knows love and cherishment as long as he’s within his bedroom. Personally.
As the sun continues to rise outside the window, there’s a bit more noise than Mettaton’s used to hearing. Day-in, day-out, the bustle is sparse, as is typical of such a small town; Toriel’s car tends to be the loudest thing he hears. But today, the chatter is lively, hammers swing repetitively atop wooden planks, and the jingles of what sounds like fair rides. Why fair rides? It takes him a moment, but…
The Festival. Of course — he can’t believe he’s forgotten. For seemingly the first time since Tenna had arrived at his doorstep, his gaze breaks from his screen, floating over to poke his eye out his curtain. The sudden sunlight is jarring; he has to close his eye to let it adjust to the light before slowly cracking it open.
“Oh, my…”
The Festival is beautiful this year, he’s very suddenly hit with it; absolutely gorgeous. Streamers and flags and banners and balloons line the street corners, a vision worthy of the entire town’s attendance. Flowers litter the streets in a delightful bloom of vibrancy. When was the last time he went to the Festival? He would’ve been younger. It couldn’t have been too long ago, right?
… Right?
He quickly shuts the curtain. The room is void of that gleaming morning sunlight, tones of pink turned grey and monotone in the darkness. Tenna’s screen still shines, though. He’s beautiful, as well, a beacon beckoning him back in. Mettaton’s drawn back to his light, to the ease and the comfort of technology.
But he’s still thinking about it. The woman on-screen with beautiful, long legs does jumping jacks in 80s aerobics attire as he thinks about it. The Festival…
“If…” Mettaton slowly turns back around. His hands fidget nervously, restless; floating towards the window once again, he slowly peeks his head back out. “If I think of the window as a screen, like yours, Tenna… the Festival sure looks gorgeous this year.”
Just like he’s looking at Tenna. If he treats the town outside as a prerecorded taping, there’s no chance someone will be able to peer up and look into his room at him. See who he is. What he is. The sentiment makes it easier for him to look through the glass, but his hands don’t stop fidgeting, longing for something to turn over in his hands and cool his overworking nerves.
He glances back at Tenna. The realization of what he’s doing makes him huff a laugh; would Tenna be jealous he’s entertaining the thought of peering at another screen? How insane the thought is about an inanimate object doesn’t dawn on him, not remotely. His gaze rather lands on the camcorder resting atop his VHS player. He conjures an idea to soothe that jealousy for his beloved Tenna, who’s done nothing but show him all sorts of wonderful programs all night. He deserves a beautiful view, too.
“Here, let me videotape it for you, Tenna.” Mettaton smiles fondly. The television cuts to static on its own; a shoddy signal, he assumes. He picks up the camcorder and slowly floats back towards the window-screen, pointing the camera to record the outside. “Then we’ll both have… a little something new to watch.”
He’s sure Tenna’s bored of all those same programs, even if he’s been having so much fun showing them to Mettaton. He’s probably never seen the festival. Who would take their CRT outside to show them the beautiful festival? Mettaton blushes, as if he’s finally realized how unconventional this all is. His hands are shaky and unsure when he starts filming, feeling a little ridiculous, watching the Festival only through the camcorder’s viewfinder for another safety blanket of deactualization.
Outside his window, it’s that girl… Susie, the girl who’d carried Tenna into his house from down the street and dragged him all the way to Mettaton’s room. A pinprick of tears threatens to flood Mettaton’s eyes. He wishes he’d thanked her more. What a sweet girl. She’d been so hopeful when Mettaton accepted the television for her, smiling so radiantly and joyfully, as if Mettaton were doing her an insurmountable favor by taking him in. Tenna meant a lot to her, didn’t he? Perhaps he’d given her the same escapism, the same needed entertainment and distractions to make it through a rare night tearless. Mettaton would've never been able to carry that big, bulky piece of hardware all the way up to his room without her help.
She looks so happy out there. Mettaton makes sure to get all her little friends in frame, too. Maybe Tenna will recognize them as well.
“Look, Tenna… it’s her.” Mettaton whispers for the recording. His hands gradually still. He doesn’t realize. “I wonder what sort of adventures the two of you went on… maybe you could… tell me about them, someday.”
Speaking about Tenna as if he’s a person has become second nature. It feels right. Correct. If not simply because of his lonely need for another, but because Susie had done the same. He’s just a TV. Mettaton knows that. But he doesn’t feel it — how could a simple TV touch his SOUL so closely?
After a few more minutes of filming the Festival, Mettaton ends the tape. The curtain is shut once more. The grey light from Tenna’s static screen calls him back in. He begins rewinding it, to show Tenna what he’d recorded for the both of them.
“I don’t have a converter to be able to show it on you, but…” Mettaton starts. Lying on his stomach, he cuddles up close to Tenna at his side, to share the view of the camcorder’s viewfinder. He starts the tape for Tenna. He cringes, internally, at his amateur cameramanship. He’d gotten this camcorder to make at-home movies, but he’d never been very good at it; it’d always end in frustration for him when he couldn’t recreate his vision perfectly. So it’d gone mostly abandoned, only used to film short, candid blips of his cousins.
“Look, Tenna,” Mettaton points to the little purple figure on the screen. “It’s Susie. The girl who brought you to me. Oh my, and look at the way she looks at that deer girl next to her. Oh, how darling, young romance… I never got my teenage romance.”
Tenna’s screen flickers back on. The channel’s changed, now, to an advertisement for some sort of medication of a woman skipping around in a field of flowers.
“Hehe, is that you? Are you happy to see her?” Mettaton giggles. The tape continues. It’s relatively monotonous, compared to the fanciful, electric scenes Tenna’s shown to Mettaton. Of course, he watches anyhow. “I know I’m not very good with a camera. Maybe I’ll keep practicing with it… and see if I can perhaps find the courage to get in front of it, someday.”
Tenna’s display switches to a scene of an audience standing up and clapping, hollering out cheers and praise. Mettaton blushes. Is that fanfare for him?
“Ah, T-Tenna… you’re a sweetheart.”
Mettaton closes the camcorder and drops it on the floor as soon as the tapes done. He raises himself inches off the ground to pivot, lying on the ground in front of Tenna, face-to-screen.
He reaches both his hands out and makes delicate contact with Tenna’s screen. A warm, tangible feeling covers his palms; whenever he does it, it feels like… corporealness. Or what he’d imagine it feels like, anyhow.
“Oooh, I love that fuzzy feeling…” He coos. He inches closer and closer until his face is up against Tenna, pressed to his glass. His eyes slide shut in overwhelming contentment. “Especially when I put my face right up to the screen. Like a nice, warm, crackling hug. Oooh, technology…”
His arms wrap around to the sides of Tenna to embrace him, keeping himself pressed solidly up against that glass. His lips pucker against it. Featherlight kisses cover Tenna’s screen, all over every inch he can find. Like he’s searching for a pair of lips to slot within his own. Gradually, though, his kisses grow lethargic and slow, the longer the CRT buzzes through his SOUL with each one.
Even as his thoughts go empty, Tenna fills his every sense. The CRT fuzz floods his nerves like a blanket is being draped over his entire body. He’s so entrenched in it, he doesn’t realize when the front door opens and slams shut. When the noises of the Festival quiet to a dim, idle chatter, of stragglers packing the town away, the sunlight slipping away. He can only hear the television. He can only see the shifting colors beneath his eyelids, keeping himself pressed up against this beautiful piece of technology as long as he can. As long as forever lasts. He’ll stay with Tenna forever.
His eyelids crack open, slowly, hours after they'd been shut. It must be nighttime, now, an entire Festival day having been spent cozy with his television in his room. It’s dark. But it’s… too dark. As if the moonlight has ceased to exist. Like his room has disappeared around him in favor of an empty void.
“Mmmn…?” He grumbles a confused noise. When he does, what feels like a pair of tangible arms that’d already been wrapped around him tighten on his form. “Who… who’s there?”
“My darling,” an unfamiliar voice whispers. Fuzzy, staticky lips kiss over his head. Mettaton’s vision is too blurry with sleepiness to properly see, but he can feel this person’s kisses and arms so steadily that tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He’s being held? He’s never been held, not by someone who isn’t a ghost. The corporeality of their form is startling. Is this what solidity feels like?
“It’s only me. Don’t worry, my star.”
He hadn’t been worrying. This stranger’s embrace is too good to be worrying.
He doesn’t even know where he’s gotten the idea for the identity of this stranger. It’s silly, really. Completely improbable. But when has Mettaton been anything but?
“T… Tenna?” He calls. But when he tries to widen his eyes further, to confirm his suspicions, the kisses cease. No more lips press soothingly over his form. And the groundingness of his arms leaves.
He looks around his room as his vision straightens. A normal amount of darkness; not the pitch black he’d been surrounded by. He must’ve been dreaming. A dream that feels endlessly cruel to have been ripped out of.
“Oh, Tenna…” Mettaton sighs. His screen, sometime, during his sleep, had faded back into that familiar static. But if he’s desperately looking, searching for an answer — if he’s truly lost his mind — it looks like the outline of a flower within the static. Is that even possible?
“… Let me dream like that some more, sometime.”