[I've told myself lies. It's just been one great farce-
Realization hits all at once like a train. All the deflections. All the insecurity. "I'm made," not "I was born." The simmering fury at being called Herve. The way he hates his reflection...
If Mettaton had eyes, they'd be widened. The light of his core dims even further as Keats' voice cracks and there are tears, genuine tears, pooling in his eyes.
All the time Mettaton's been pulling at threads to get Keats to admit things about himself... Keats has never been hiding things from Mettaton. Keats has been hiding things from Keats.
He doesn't want to leave his grip. It's warm and comforting and it's the first time someone's ever held him, really held him, in his entire, miserable life. But he floats out of Keats' grasp anyway. He has to float to eye-level, to press himself against the other's forehead.
It's as close to an embrace as he has. Maybe... maybe he's warm enough that there's comfort in that.]
shut up. you don't get to call yourself that. you are not a thing.
you're sweet. you're nosy and stubborn. you love writing more than anything else in the world. you adore folklore and the history behind them. you love dissecting stories and their adaptations, to the point of making them both meaningless. you always want a logical reason for everything and get some sort of weird glee at the thought of putting the clues together. you want to believe in things you already proved false, just in case you're wrong. you watch musicals and pretend like you hate them. you cry at bittersweet romances. you think puns are hilarious and can't take a compliment and go from being stuffy to a menace when the chance to play tricks fall into your lap. you talk about never finding someone and then flirt with a robot.
you're a person, keats. you're complicated and obnoxious and more smug than a jerk like you needs to be, but that still makes you you. if you can see me, me, as a person, you have no excuse when the mirror is on yourself.
if you accept what you are... half-life or faery or ghost or whatever category you want to pick, then what's so scary about it? i don't know where i came from. i don't care where you came from and i'm sorry that you have these memories that aren't yours. i can't even imagine that.
but all that matters is that you're keats.
stupid, sweet, irritating keats.
[Sigh... Mettaton floats backwards, just enough for them to actually see one another.]
...this is the part where i'd kiss you, but... you know. "have no mouth and must smooch."
no subject
Realization hits all at once like a train. All the deflections. All the insecurity. "I'm made," not "I was born." The simmering fury at being called Herve. The way he hates his reflection...
If Mettaton had eyes, they'd be widened. The light of his core dims even further as Keats' voice cracks and there are tears, genuine tears, pooling in his eyes.
All the time Mettaton's been pulling at threads to get Keats to admit things about himself... Keats has never been hiding things from Mettaton. Keats has been hiding things from Keats.
He doesn't want to leave his grip. It's warm and comforting and it's the first time someone's ever held him, really held him, in his entire, miserable life. But he floats out of Keats' grasp anyway. He has to float to eye-level, to press himself against the other's forehead.
It's as close to an embrace as he has. Maybe... maybe he's warm enough that there's comfort in that.]
shut up. you don't get to call yourself that. you are not a thing.
you're sweet. you're nosy and stubborn. you love writing more than anything else in the world. you adore folklore and the history behind them. you love dissecting stories and their adaptations, to the point of making them both meaningless. you always want a logical reason for everything and get some sort of weird glee at the thought of putting the clues together. you want to believe in things you already proved false, just in case you're wrong. you watch musicals and pretend like you hate them. you cry at bittersweet romances. you think puns are hilarious and can't take a compliment and go from being stuffy to a menace when the chance to play tricks fall into your lap. you talk about never finding someone and then flirt with a robot.
you're a person, keats. you're complicated and obnoxious and more smug than a jerk like you needs to be, but that still makes you you. if you can see me, me, as a person, you have no excuse when the mirror is on yourself.
if you accept what you are... half-life or faery or ghost or whatever category you want to pick, then what's so scary about it? i don't know where i came from. i don't care where you came from and i'm sorry that you have these memories that aren't yours. i can't even imagine that.
but all that matters is that you're keats.
stupid, sweet, irritating keats.
[Sigh... Mettaton floats backwards, just enough for them to actually see one another.]
...this is the part where i'd kiss you, but... you know. "have no mouth and must smooch."