[It's scary, really, because now it feels like he's stepping into a world unfamiliar and strange. He's played the Pinocchio all his life, desperately trying to prove that he's a real boy by believing the skin on his body isn't wood. Now, he can't keep going on with that delusion. The whole thing has been shattered.]

[He's not human. There's no denying that now.]

[Keats is still wiping away tears, feeling pathetic over the fact that he even is crying a bit in the first place, when he suddenly feels Mettaton move to press up against his forehead. He freezes, eyes staring into the warm, rosy light.]

[The heart is warm to the touch. But the words that come from it are far warmer.]

Is that so? [Yes, yes, he is all those things. He's a fake, by all means, but all those traits he's developed on his own. Herve may have laid the groundwork, the foundation, but everything else is him. It belongs to him and him only. Mettaton sees him as a person, why can't he do the same for himself?]

[I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul, he recalls from an old poem he read, once upon a time. The past is not what he thought it was, but he can't think of that. He has to move forward.]

[Mettaton moves back, and Keats lets out a laugh, his tone incredibly fond:]

Ah, and you're an idiot who's simply being too nice for his own good. Who are you and what have you done with Mettaton...?

[He wipes off his eyes one last time with the back of his sleeve, staring at Mettaton's heart - god, is he beautiful no matter what he looks like, how is that possible? - and leans on the table with a smile that is somewhat coy.]

I do have lips at the current moment, so...how about I do us both the favor?