more for the boogerman

[dustless]

 (Continued from here~)

Frisk hopes there's no fight. 

They want to be left alone, sure, but that's not the only thing they hope for. Even they can't just fix a--rivalry, a longstanding hatred, at least not when the opposing parties actually know each other. But they also hope they can...lessen it, at least a bit. So the Sandman doesn't try to outright kill--no, they're sorry, 'banish', with lots of beating and tarry blood--Pitch when they see each other every time.

(Of course, they don't know the whole story. But they can't imagine that would matter.)

The time ticks down in companionable silence. 

Frisk keeps their eyes on the sky--

--and they sit straight up when they first spot glimmering gold in the clouds.

Comments

[dustless]

The smile doesn't falter. All Mettaton does is wave to him before turning back to Frisk.

He's the host, of course he's seen Pitch around, he knows everything that goes on in his household. He came in with Frisk, and he hasn't socialized much; maybe he's shy. Mettaton won't force him forward, especially if he has no act ready.

"All the dogs are around the back now, sweetheart, playing cards. They'll be the easiest to visit. But first, would you like to preform an act with me for old times' sake?" Smile, smile.

Frisk glances back and shakes their head. "No thanks." They have Pitch to do stuff with right now. "Maybe later."

[boogerman]

Huh. They looked at him when they turned the robot down?

"Go ahead if you want to, I'll watch." Pitch says with a shrug. Watch and nibble. Getting into the proper, laid back spirit if the things.

[dustless]

"...you sure?" There's an unexpected dose of shyness there.

"Of course!" Mettaton answers for him, plucking them up and setting them on the stage. The handful of monsters around start to drift closer to that half of the ballroom.

[boogerman]

See, it's what the people want! Even him, he's curious. Singing? Dancing? Playing an instrument? All of these are things he enjoys watching, so why not?

Although, as usual, he has to squint.

[dustless]

If it were a real encore for old time's sake, then it'd be half-dancing, half-fighting. They're good at that, and people would probably enjoy it, but--too much risk, too much. (Some other time.)

Blooky moves to their DJ booth.

Mettaton starts to sing.

For about a minute, Frisk listens. They know this song. They've heard it, they know it, they heard it, they know it--they swipe a mic and join in.



And they're good.

They can't keep all the childishness that comes with, of course, being a child. That doesn't matter. Their voice is nothing more than an extension of Mettaton's, only losing the tune once or twice, and that's one hell of a feat without any vocal warmup.

They sway in the spotlight, watching the light glint off Mettaton's armor, and they mimic his more low-key poses, waving their hand over the crowd when he does--yes, you! We're singing at you! To you! Just you, it doesn't matter everyone else is here! You out of the crowd are the most important, don't you know? Don't you believe it?

Performing a song in front of their friends with their family fills them with determination.

yay tags

[boogerman]

No, he does not believe it. He can't.

He swallows a mouthful of delicate shrimp, listening without truly looking (too bright), and... it's nice. Pleasant. A crowd he's safe in, touchable, someone he knows singing so well... definitely worth remembering. A good peaceful moment. That's rarer than diamonds, for Pitch Black.

✨

[dustless]

Pitch might be jostled a bit, in fact, as more and more monsters gather to watch their stars with glittering masses of eyes.

Diamonds, diamonds, diamonds aren't so rare. Neither's gold. Frisk's gold, skin and hair under the spotlight, and they feel radiant even if not everybody's looking at them.

The song ends, the crowd screams and claps, Frisk laughs and laughs and laughs and takes a bow along with Mettaton. "Thanks! Thank you!"

[boogerman]

He doesn't clap, merely chuckles quietly, subdued. At peace. No one can hear him and he's on the fringes of the crowd, safe from human touch. Frisk, a local legend in the making, who knows what they'll grow up to be?

[dustless]

There's call for an encore. Their head's buzzing enough they almost, almost do, but they're also gross and sweaty and their red ribbon's disappeared, crap. Maybe they went a little too far, it's lost in the crowd now probably.

Oh well.

Frisk rockets off the side to even more applause. Who needs stairs? And then they're circling around the crowd--not looking for Pitch right off, actually, just looking for a table with a drink.

[boogerman]

Oh, well. The song is over. He himself starts wandering, a slowly awakening craving for something fruity. Maybe there's a dessert table--he's tall and dark, Frisk is bound to spot him calmly browsing.

[dustless]

Sure there is! All kinds of sweets, but there's stuff like chopped-up apple and kiwi and watermelon. Also a milkshake machine someone shoved between a table and a wall, somehow, and so Frisk heads to that before doubling around back to Pitch.

"Didja like it?"

[boogerman]

Kiwi catches his eye, and so he scoops up what's almost a normal sized portion into a little bowl. Go Pitch!

"You're very good." Strong words, considering the source. "Surprised me in a good way."

[dustless]

Surprising! But good. A pretty good night. The walking-through thing was pretty bad, but at least nobody's died.

Frisk understands this, and they bow again, eye dancing. "Thank you!" They were genuine on the stage, and just as genuine here. "'M glad."

[boogerman]

Bad, but normal enough. Bad is normal. He can forgive one walking-through, it happens more often than Frisk will ever know.

"Then I suppose it was good you went up there."

[dustless]

They grin and keep at their milkshake, leaning against the table and watching--Pitch, the passing monsters, Mettaton still onstage...it's a fun, fuzzy rush of excitement.

But they haven't forgotten what they were gonna do. "Wanna stay here a while? Or d'you wanna go meet Endogeny?"

[boogerman]

If only he ate fun. If only his core magic came from laughter--wouldn't life have been so different? He wishes.

"Who is Endogeny and why do I want to meet them?"

[dustless]

What would his name even be, in that case...? Frisk probably wouldn't have met him so easily, anyway. They hadn't believed in Santa Claus.

"They're dog monsters and they're too scary for humans, usually, so I thought you'd think they were cool!"

[boogerman]

"Usually, but not when it's you." Tsk tsk. Go figure. "Alright. I saw a couple dogs on the way in, but I wouldn't call them scary."

[dustless]

"They scared me a lot when I met them." This is incredibly true. "And they're not the same. They're lots of dogs."

And with that, Frisk is already bouncing off. Literally, practically skipping.

[boogerman]

"They're lots of dogs? What does that mean?"

Sure, he'll find out in a moment, but his curiosity is awakened. He keeps up with long strides, little bowl and spoon with kiwi coming with him.

[dustless]

"That'd ruin it." The surprise, Frisk means.

They lead him through the winding halls, to the back of the mansion--and, well, there are lots of dogs. They all look pretty normal, though, for monsters, all gathered in a circle, apparently playing cards.

The white ones bark greetings; the darker-furred one with the knives jerks his head up, peering around, looking through Pitch like any human...and Frisk, if he pays attention. "Who's there?"

...There's also something odd drifting in the air. A fear of needles, and weird, chalky confetti.

"Meee! And a friend. He has clearance!" Because Frisk said so. "I wanna introduce your parents!"

whoops

[boogerman]

Needles. That's common. Strangely normal, considering they're all dogmen and dogwomen.

"Me. Pitch. I was invited."

[dustless]

"Then move!" he growls, twitching his head left and right, still looking through them both. "I can't see you!"

"Be nice, Doggo. He doesn't know you can't see things that aren't moving," Frisk says reproachfully.

"Whatever. Why's he want to meet them?"

"I want him to meet them." And they're not going to say why, 'cause that'd be rude. They throw their head back at shout at the ceiling. "C'mon, Endogeny!"

No, at the white confetti, because it starts to move and bob and weave through the air all at the same time, until every piece ripples together and condenses into a chalky ball that descends to the floor with a thundering thud. It twists and warps until it's a mass of fur and too-many-legs (how many legs? it's impossible to tell even if you try to count) that moves and shifts and becomes something that barely resembles any sort of dog except for having fur. A mass seven feet tall and nearly double the width and length, maybe, maybe. It never stops moving, wormish movements under the fur and skin, something that should be a head faceless with only a massive hole that spills some sort of liquid like drool, like blood. Even so, Endogeny anything but soundless, muffled barking coming from maybe standing on the floor, maybe hovering with its claws striking the wood instead. The shadows in the spaces between its legs are impossible to see through, even for Pitch; it's not shadows at all, it's nothing, and it's blinking.

[boogerman]

What on Earth? Parents indeed. He didn't think monsters could get this weird--weird and wonderful. Except for the drool, that's just disgusting.

"Well, look at you." He's not faking the delight in his voice, or the grin on the side of friendly instead of vicious. "Endogeny?"

[dustless]

"They had different names, once." In this case, 'they' really is plural.

Endogeny perks up--well, the nothing around where the legs meet the body seems to take up a little more room--and they trot/shamble/float/climb over. Ah, so that's where that needle fear was coming from.

Entirely unbothered, Frisk reaches out to pet their writhing side.