There's an idea. [He says - coming out of anyone else that idea would be made fun of, but Keats is already so used to Mettaton's exaggerated egocentric dreams that it's kind of wrapped back into being charming. He watches as Mettaton shifts in his grip, but before he can say anything, Mettaton is already making himself come back down to solid ground.]
[There's a pang in Keats' chest when he does so. He had scoffed at the idea of being some kind of Guardian, but he had to admit, to hold someone in his arms like that, to be something large and wild and powerful enough to protect them...it's nice. It's very nice.]
[But Mettaton is leaving. Keats blinks in surprise as Mettaton kisses him and starts to go, and Keats, without thinking, reaches forward to grab his wrist.]
Hey. Mettaton- [He starts and stops, awkwardly releasing his grip. His eyebrows are arched up in concern.]
...Are you alright?
[He lets out a huff. Of course, he half expects Mettaton to just brush him off, to say something flippant and leave. But then again, Mettaton clearly had gained some kind of experience he never had. Was it guilt? Worry? Something else? Mettaton is not himself, Keats knows that for sure. Something is going on.]
[...]
[He never has really asked how Mettaton has been doing all that much before, has he...?]
If something is going on, Mettaton, then... [He's bad at this. He knows he is. But he doesn't like this kind of vague ending, where he shows something as deep as this to the other and the other seems vaguely upset by something he can't understand. So even though he's terrible at expressing himself, he is genuinely, sincerely concerned.]
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[There's a pang in Keats' chest when he does so. He had scoffed at the idea of being some kind of Guardian, but he had to admit, to hold someone in his arms like that, to be something large and wild and powerful enough to protect them...it's nice. It's very nice.]
[But Mettaton is leaving. Keats blinks in surprise as Mettaton kisses him and starts to go, and Keats, without thinking, reaches forward to grab his wrist.]
Hey. Mettaton- [He starts and stops, awkwardly releasing his grip. His eyebrows are arched up in concern.]
...Are you alright?
[He lets out a huff. Of course, he half expects Mettaton to just brush him off, to say something flippant and leave. But then again, Mettaton clearly had gained some kind of experience he never had. Was it guilt? Worry? Something else? Mettaton is not himself, Keats knows that for sure. Something is going on.]
[...]
[He never has really asked how Mettaton has been doing all that much before, has he...?]
If something is going on, Mettaton, then... [He's bad at this. He knows he is. But he doesn't like this kind of vague ending, where he shows something as deep as this to the other and the other seems vaguely upset by something he can't understand. So even though he's terrible at expressing himself, he is genuinely, sincerely concerned.]
You can tell me. It's okay.