[Goodness, what's with him? He throws out compliments left and right and asks questions and the minute Keats even thinks to show him the same, Mettaton shuts down (pun intended) almost instantly.]
[He stares at Mettaton for a moment, lips pursed in thought.]
One man's tragedy is another man's comedy. [A beat.] And I mean the technical term of comedy, not the ha-ha sort of comedy.
[As in, a comedy meaning "a story with a happy ending". He leans over the table, shaking his head gently.]
Come now, Mettaton. I write what I want to write. I mean, look at me. I'm still writing for a magazine that is barely in business because I don't really care if people think it's useless to do so.
[He huffs.] The point is, Mettaton, you're not a tragedy. And even if you somehow are, does it look like I'm walking away from that?
[Keats gestures to himself.]
I mean, I'm not getting up. I like being here. [A pause.] I like being here with you. Isn't that all that matters?
no subject
[He stares at Mettaton for a moment, lips pursed in thought.]
One man's tragedy is another man's comedy. [A beat.] And I mean the technical term of comedy, not the ha-ha sort of comedy.
[As in, a comedy meaning "a story with a happy ending". He leans over the table, shaking his head gently.]
Come now, Mettaton. I write what I want to write. I mean, look at me. I'm still writing for a magazine that is barely in business because I don't really care if people think it's useless to do so.
[He huffs.] The point is, Mettaton, you're not a tragedy. And even if you somehow are, does it look like I'm walking away from that?
[Keats gestures to himself.]
I mean, I'm not getting up. I like being here. [A pause.] I like being here with you. Isn't that all that matters?