[That's what Mettaton is trying to say. That he can't call him out because he's been doing the same thing himself. Mettaton runs. Keats runs. They just keep running and not looking back.]
[Has Mettaton been running all this time? He's throwing out these harsh words, like daggers, and Keats almost feels some pathetic sense of victory, because this kind of reaction is just confirming his previous suspicion. He's a reporter. He's found out information that has opened up a new branch of the case. Mettaton, the celebrity, a being who thrives in the spotlight, is insecure. (But is it fair, to think of him like a case to be opened, investigated, and closed? Mettaton isn't a case, he's...not.) Nobody would react this badly if they didn't feel vulnerable.]
[Keats should know. He's done it himself.]
[That last word makes him wince, like that single solitary word has caused him more damage than anything else. A part of him, especially in this state, wants to yell, to roar, to destroy things, to just get rid of the problem and just move on to the next thing. He stares down at his hands. They're shaking. They're not his hands, they're grey-skinned and big and bandaged and they are also his hands, they belong to him, this is him, and he doesn't know what to think. It feels like a lot of thoughts are colliding at once at full speed in his brain. Somehow, he almost wants to go back to the transformation.]
[Somehow, that's less painful.]
Maybe I am.
[He clenches his hands into fists. His voice is very quiet as he repeats the words to himself.]
no subject
[...Because he's a hypocrite.]
[That's what Mettaton is trying to say. That he can't call him out because he's been doing the same thing himself. Mettaton runs. Keats runs. They just keep running and not looking back.]
[Has Mettaton been running all this time? He's throwing out these harsh words, like daggers, and Keats almost feels some pathetic sense of victory, because this kind of reaction is just confirming his previous suspicion. He's a reporter. He's found out information that has opened up a new branch of the case. Mettaton, the celebrity, a being who thrives in the spotlight, is insecure. (But is it fair, to think of him like a case to be opened, investigated, and closed? Mettaton isn't a case, he's...not.) Nobody would react this badly if they didn't feel vulnerable.]
[Keats should know. He's done it himself.]
[That last word makes him wince, like that single solitary word has caused him more damage than anything else. A part of him, especially in this state, wants to yell, to roar, to destroy things, to just get rid of the problem and just move on to the next thing. He stares down at his hands. They're shaking. They're not his hands, they're grey-skinned and big and bandaged and they are also his hands, they belong to him, this is him, and he doesn't know what to think. It feels like a lot of thoughts are colliding at once at full speed in his brain. Somehow, he almost wants to go back to the transformation.]
[Somehow, that's less painful.]
Maybe I am.
[He clenches his hands into fists. His voice is very quiet as he repeats the words to himself.]
...Maybe I am.