It's so easy to say. Yes, it's your fault. Yes, I'm blaming you. His mouth starts the process of syncing the word to the sound about to leave his speakers, but... it doesn't come.
Mettaton's tired. Keats knows he hurt him and is genuinely sorry. That's more than most people would ever do. Have ever done.
The anger finally deflates into some sort of calm defeat. He can't goad this man into a fight. He wouldn't be able to win it, anyway.]
No. [At the very least, there's one thing he has to correct.] You want Mettaton. You want shiny and alluring and glamorous and joyful. You want a celebrity. An image. You want someone silly and shallow and adoring, someone that will always shower his fans in glitter and affection. Someone that will always tell that you're stunning and worth it even when you're NOT.
You don't want me. [His lights of his eyes dim, words trailing out of his speakers that have never rung aloud before now.] I don't want me...
[Ha. Haha... The cloak comes back up just as his hands go to his face. He shakes his fingers through his hair, squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes air he doesn't need.
Finally:]
Can't we just forget this? [His hands fold back to his side and he's smiling, but his voice is desperate. That's pathetic. Why doesn't he have better control of himself? If he gets closer, like he does now, and gingerly places his hands on the other's chest, like he's whispering sweet nothings, no one on earth would notice.] I'll stop asking you questions, alright? I'll stop digging into business that isn't mine and we can keep pretending we aren't just using one another for the attention. Let's just... pretend.
no subject
It's so easy to say. Yes, it's your fault. Yes, I'm blaming you. His mouth starts the process of syncing the word to the sound about to leave his speakers, but... it doesn't come.
Mettaton's tired. Keats knows he hurt him and is genuinely sorry. That's more than most people would ever do. Have ever done.
The anger finally deflates into some sort of calm defeat. He can't goad this man into a fight. He wouldn't be able to win it, anyway.]
No. [At the very least, there's one thing he has to correct.] You want Mettaton. You want shiny and alluring and glamorous and joyful. You want a celebrity. An image. You want someone silly and shallow and adoring, someone that will always shower his fans in glitter and affection. Someone that will always tell that you're stunning and worth it even when you're NOT.
You don't want me. [His lights of his eyes dim, words trailing out of his speakers that have never rung aloud before now.] I don't want me...
[Ha. Haha... The cloak comes back up just as his hands go to his face. He shakes his fingers through his hair, squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes air he doesn't need.
Finally:]
Can't we just forget this? [His hands fold back to his side and he's smiling, but his voice is desperate. That's pathetic. Why doesn't he have better control of himself? If he gets closer, like he does now, and gingerly places his hands on the other's chest, like he's whispering sweet nothings, no one on earth would notice.] I'll stop asking you questions, alright? I'll stop digging into business that isn't mine and we can keep pretending we aren't just using one another for the attention. Let's just... pretend.
Please?