[...he doesn't remember. Keats doesn't remember. Mettaton's face remains stunned, like he's about to cry. How could this happen? After all the love and affection and work he's put into this relationship, Keats can't remember a single date...? Does it not mean anything to him?! Did NONE of this--
Okay, no, he can't. He can't keep it up in front of that face. Mettaton cracks, his pout briefly twisting itself into the face of a man desperately trying to hold back his own laughter before-- there it goes. He's already doubling over with the force of his uncontrollable giggles. Words are gone. There is only a living laughtrack.
Bent over and practically face-first into a glass of orange juice, gray text floats over Mettaton's head in lieu of the man himself have to wheeze out an explanation.]
no subject
Okay, no, he can't. He can't keep it up in front of that face. Mettaton cracks, his pout briefly twisting itself into the face of a man desperately trying to hold back his own laughter before-- there it goes. He's already doubling over with the force of his uncontrollable giggles. Words are gone. There is only a living laughtrack.
Bent over and practically face-first into a glass of orange juice, gray text floats over Mettaton's head in lieu of the man himself have to wheeze out an explanation.]
HAPPY SIXTH MONTH ANNIVERSARY, YOU DORK