[It's a miracle. A genuine, honest miracle. No matter what amount of affection the other holds for him, Mettaton knows without a shadow of a doubt that Keats can't help himself from digging up every bit of dirt around him. He's like a damn fox that doesn't even care to bury anything, so long as no one else can keep hiding things from him.
So... if anything, Mettaton can recognize that it isn't easy, denying that instinct.
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So... if anything, Mettaton can recognize that it isn't easy, denying that instinct.
It. It really means a lot.]
Please.