Sweetheart, if the world was just and fair, my feet would never be touching the ground. I would live in a royal carriage that loyal servants would carry while I lay back and eat grapes. [God, he's so pretty when he isn't standing. Mettaton's eyes still haven't left the mirror, watching his own legs flex back and forth in someone else's grip. It's entrancing. He looks so light.

So. Human.

There's a pain in his core, knowing this isn't real. Keats is just under a magical spell. Mettaton's... just a robot. The mirror's reflecting back some idealized version of reality where he finally gets to be weak and vulnerable and human, but that isn't real.

He wiggles loose, putting himself back onto solid ground with a heavy thunk. Well. That was nice, at least.

Sigh.]

Thanks for the show, honeysuckle.

[It's slightly bittersweet. It's wonderful, being trusted (even if that trust comes from the single truth that Mettaton is so determined to stick his nose into other people's business that it'd be more of a hassle to NOT trust him). At the same time, it's just another reminder of what he isn't. He isn't Keats. He can't just magically transform into something else; no matter what Mettaton does, he's always cold and metal. He doesn't get stronger. He doesn't become a handsome, mythical prince with flowing white hair and glowing blue eyes. He stays metal.

Yeah. It was nice to pretend.

Like at the mall, Mettaton leans in and gently presses his lips near the other man's mouth. Near, not on.

He's already heading toward the door.]