Is there even a dance floor here? Would that matter one way or another? Mettaton's very much the sort of mutant to march to the beat of his own drum, or more specifically, design an appropriately-glittery drum and then hire someone to strike the beat as dictated by him, likely via a combination of charisma, encouragement, and flattery so genuine one wouldn't be able to resist.

In short, it probably doesn't matter to him in the slightest whether or not this is, strictly speaking, a dance party - he's about to make it one.

So. Shall we dance, Ambassador Frisk?

They smile gently, and take his proffered hand with a smile.

We shall.

"I would be honored," they say, with the faint inclination of their head to signify a bow.