Chapter Text
Being corporeal was the dream of every ghost in the underground. It was Mettaton’s dream too. Now that he’d found the right body.
He’d thought a lot about the body he wanted. Planned everything out meticulously with the great Doctor Alphys. But, admittedly, he’d been rather unprepared for how having one would feel. None of his cousins had ever described it outside the feelings of right and good that came with the right one, and he’d never spent any time in dummies and other such bodies like the others had. He’d thought, ‘why bother when I know it won’t be the right one’. So he hadn’t been expecting how it would feel when he actually got one.
Having a corporal form was… just a little strange. There were a lot of sensations he’d never felt before. To the point where it was uncomfortable. He audibly cringed when Alphys hugged him. She’d spent hours after apologising for taking it too far, claiming excitement. He gave up trying to explain half way through and just accepted her apologies. At least she wouldn’t do it again until he gave her permission.
Maybe it was just because he hadn’t fully incorporated yet. Maybe it was just because he’d never touched anything before. Whatever the cause, he found touch quite unpleasant. Like a horrible noise and an electric shock rolled into one.
Objects were easier than people. He got used to the feel of plastic and wood and grass. He even enjoyed the feeling of some fabrics on their new metal frame. He was able to take things slow. Poke and prod and slowly let the feeling go away on his own terms. Sometimes the feeling didn’t go away at all, some objects just felt bad regardless of what he did. But when other monsters came into the equation things got a little messier.
Now, Mettaton adored his fans. He really did. He’d gained more than a little fame since he’d made his debut and he’d loved every second of it. It was just… fans wanted handshakes. Hugs. Things normal celebrities gave at fan meets. Things Mettaton should want to give at fan meets. But all the different textures. Some monsters were fluffy, some monsters were coarse, some scaly, some slimy, some sticky, some hot, some cold, textures he hasn't had the chance to put a name to yet. It was always a surprise. Always something he was unprepared for, with no chance to poke and prod and see if he wished to touch them at all.
It was his least favourite part of being a star. Of having this perfect body. An ugly mark on
his dream life. And worse, the more he pushed himself to get over it the worse the feeling became. Trying to stomach an hour of fans led to days where the feeling of even a microphone in his hands felt like nails on a chalkboard.
He tried speaking to Alphys about it. She thought it was a fault with her systems. How he wished things were that simple. All that earned him was hours of touching as Alphys tried to fix a problem with his body that didn’t exist. He’d ended up telling her she’d fixed the issue just to make her stop. That was another week of wanting to flee the body that felt so right otherwise.
He wished he could talk to other ghosts about this. He thought about going to ask one of the ghosts who’d settled down as dummies. Or even Blooky, though they wouldn’t have as much experience. But his perfect body and perfect life came with the cost of hiding what he truly was. No one could know. Which meant he couldn’t get any advice.
He couldn’t explain himself to the fans either. He was supposed to be a robot. A robot with a SOUL but a robot nonetheless. If they found out he couldn’t stand their touch they’d have questions. Questions he couldn’t answer without either exposing everything or making Dr. Alphys look incompetent. It wasn’t like any of them were being anything less than perfectly respectful. How could he say no without looking a callous uncaring beast, so lost in his own inflated sense of self worth that he couldn’t even stand to touch his fans. Mettaton’s sense of self worth was perfectly normal for how amazing he was. He couldn’t let something like this slander his or Dr. Alphys’ image.
So he just learned to manage things. Made himself so busy with his shows and hotel that he simply did not have time to greet fans. Spend time away getting upgrades with Alphys, forcing himself to get used to her touch. Learning how to keep his mouth shut when he did have to touch another monster. He was lucky his body wasn’t expressive enough to visually cringe. Yet. That might become an issue when his upgrades were finished.
When things got bad, he simply needed to remind himself of everything he’d gained. The years he spent dreaming of a body he’d thought would be impossible to obtain. The dreams of screaming fans that were once confined to Shyren’s Parents’ Garage. It was worth it. He could work through it, even as what he’d hoped would be a temporary adjustment period grew longer and more painful every time he forced himself to shake a hand or hug an disgusting sticky scratchy excitable child. He had fountains in his image. He was a star. He had a litany of staff that bent to his every whim. When he looked at himself in the mirror he was happy. He had his own network and all the creative freedom he could dream of.
Anyone would kill to be him. What was one little issue in the face of all that. For all he knew every ghost went through this every day and even with their mediocre bodies they never complained a single time.
Wasn’t there a human phrase ‘pain is beauty’. Well Mettaton was certainly more beautiful than anyone else.
He wanted to scream. Instead he let his adoring fans cheer and touch and express their love as they rightfully should be able to. And he did not raise a word of complaint.