[Someone's particularly happy about this. Keats follows Mettaton's gaze. A mirror. He actually almost doesn't recognize himself. It's not like he's had the time to pause and stare at his own reflection while beating out the Id from a horde of Folks. And so, for the first time in a very long time, Keats stares at himself. It's a bit like seeing a vaguely familiar stranger on the street. Like, somewhere deep down, he knows this, this is him, and yet there's something totally and completely alien about it. The white hair, the tattoos, his body - it makes his mouth open slightly as he just looks over it all.]
[He was embarrassed to think about it before (because really, going almost half naked isn't exactly a comforting situation), but now, he doesn't know what to feel. A part of him is more comfortable than he's ever felt in his life, and that fact terrifies him. This is just another form, something magical, it's not like it's what he should always look like...right?]
I guess you haven't been carried around like this before, huh? [Because he recognizes that Mettaton is, well, incredibly heavy. He doubts people could carry him around like this even if they wanted to. He stares down at the robot, a smile playing across his lips.] I guess the carrier becomes the carried, now.
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[He was embarrassed to think about it before (because really, going almost half naked isn't exactly a comforting situation), but now, he doesn't know what to feel. A part of him is more comfortable than he's ever felt in his life, and that fact terrifies him. This is just another form, something magical, it's not like it's what he should always look like...right?]
I guess you haven't been carried around like this before, huh? [Because he recognizes that Mettaton is, well, incredibly heavy. He doubts people could carry him around like this even if they wanted to. He stares down at the robot, a smile playing across his lips.] I guess the carrier becomes the carried, now.