Keats (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
headlining) wrote2015-12-03 11:35 pm
headlining) wrote2015-12-03 11:35 pmEntry tags:
FUTUROLOGY IC INBOX
username: UNKNOWNREALMS | ✉ ☏📷 |
headlining) wrote2015-12-03 11:35 pm
username: UNKNOWNREALMS | ✉ ☏📷 |
no subject
[Ah. That question. The one that's been haunting him since he realized the gift ALASTAIR was giving him. Would you like to go back home? Would he?
Humans already have stars and idols. Monsters... they only have me.
Come on, Blooky. You know I'd never leave you behind.
The three of us performing together... It really feels overdue, doesn't it?
Mettaton's fingers curl in on themselves. His screen is dimmed.]
OF COURSE I WOULD, HONEYSUCKLE. BUT ISN'T THERE SOMETHING SO APPEALING ABOUT HAVING A WIDER AUDIENCE? YES, THESE MISSIONS ARE GODAWFUL AND I'D GIVE ANYTHING TO NOT HAVE TO DEAL WITH SOMETHING LIKE WOODHURST AGAIN, BUT...
WE SAVED THE DAY, DIDN'T WE? THINK OF ALL THE LIVES WE SAVED. THAT WE CAN KEEP SAVING. HA. WITH MY BRAINS AND YOUR BEAUTY...
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[He says, to the last statement, a brief smile playing on his lips.]
Ah, yes, that is what we have to think about...we've abandoned our lives to serve a greater purpose. Saving the universe, quite literally. Abandon our own needs to serve the many.
[He sighs. Honestly, he doesn't know what to think about returning home, himself. Ellen could handle herself in the Netherworld Core just fine, though there's always a concern that something, anything, might happen and he won't be there to help stop it.]
Anyways. [He lets out a laugh.] If this is an interview, I guess this is the part where I ask you where you see yourself in five years.
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He doesn't feel very beautiful lately. It's one thing to objectively know you're designed to be attractive. It's another to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and believe it.
Whatever. Flatterer.]
SURROUNDED BY ADORING FANS AND LOTS AND LOTS OF MONEY. HOW IS THAT QUESTION SUPPOSED TO BE DIFFICULT?
...WHAT ABOUT YOU? I CAN'T SEE YOU AS THE TYPE TO LET A MYSTERY GO UNSOLVED LONG. AM I STILL GOING TO KNOW YOU IN FIVE YEARS?
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Not bad. Especially for a celebrity, that's the ultimate dream, isn't it?
[He lowers his hand, giving the other a large shrug at the question.]
What kind of question is that? You make it sound like I'm going to be some kind of adventurer and head off to uncharted waters whenever I get the chance. [He shakes his head, brushing back some strands of hair that are in his eyes.] No, I'll be chasing down stories, of course, but ALASTAIR is giving me a life time's supply of them. Maybe I'll just work on my craft and get it good enough to win a Pulitzer. Can you imagine that? Winning an award for my writing...it's practically a pipe dream.
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Maybe those comedies about people only being attracted to what's horrible for them have a point. Blegh.
Anyway. There's an audible click, like a spring releasing, as Mettaton slinks back into his chair. He wasn't tense over the answer he was going to get. Why should he care if he's put more effort into this... thing going on and the other decides to go home? It's fine. It doesn't matter.]
CONSIDERING I'VE SEEN NEITHER HAIR NOR HIDE OF YOUR WRITING, I'M GOING TO AGREE WITH YOU THERE. [Let's focus on better things. Like teasing. Teasing is easy.] YOU'VE BEEN HERE FOR WHAT, HOW LONG? HOW MANY STORIES HAVE YOU WRITTEN ABOUT YOUR ADVENTURES, HMM? [The lights on his screen flash into a smile.] OR DID YOU GET DISTRACTED STARING AT PRETTY ROBOTS ALL DAY?
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[It's a jab at him, he knows that well, but he can't really be mad. He just glances over, smile widening even though he really shouldn't give into this kind of teasing from this impossibly, frustrating robot who clearly thinks he's better than everyone else.]
[Oh, what the hell.]
But maybe I haven't been distracted enough. I need to get some kind of inspiration from somewhere, don't I? Clearly I haven't gotten as much as I would've liked.
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THAT'S GAY, KEATS]no subject
[The hum gets louder, but it's not joy or flattery this time. It hurts. It's a twisting in his core that would make him throw up if he had the ability. It's like being trapped in his own body when the power runs out. Everything is empty, no matter how much you want to reach out and be apart of the same world as everyone else.
You just aren't.
This is what he gets, obviously. Blooky would say to drop it. It's not worth it. This is karma telling you to stop.]
YOU'RE SWEET...
[If he had a face right now, he'd be smiling. It'd be anything but happy.]
YOU SHOULD REALLY FIND MORE PRODUCTIVE THINGS TO DO WITH YOUR TIME THAN WRITING A TRAGEDY.
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[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?
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It's not true. That's never what matters.]
FOR HOW LONG?
YOU HAVE A CRUSH, KEATS. HOW LONG UNTIL THAT STOPS?
UNTIL YOU GET TIRED OF GLITZ AND GLAMOUR? UNTIL THE NOISE ISN'T WORTH THE ATTENTION?
UNTIL YOU REALIZE YOU CAN NEVER HOLD MY HAND? THAT I'LL NEVER KISS YOU? THAT THERE'S NO ROMANTIC, CANDLE-LIT DINNERS OR MEANINGFUL EMBRACES? UNTIL YOU REALIZE YOU CAN'T MAKE LOVE TO METAL?
HA... NO. YOU'RE STUBBORN. I KNOW YOU ENOUGH BY NOW TO KNOW YOU'D SAY NONE OF THAT MATTERS TO YOU. YOU FIND SOMETHING YOU SET YOUR HEART ON AND YOU CHASE IT UNTIL YOU KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT IT, NO MATTER WHAT.
IT'LL BE UNTIL YOU GET BORED. WHEN YOU REALIZE I'M JUST NOT GOING TO TELL YOU THE ONE THING I CAN'T TELL ANYONE AND IT'S JUST NOT WORTH TRYING ANYMORE.
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[If Mettaton is expecting him to react badly, he doesn't. In fact, his tone almost seems light, though the look on his face seems bittersweet.]
Mettaton, you know what the most fascinating thing about people is? Let me give you a guess. It's the reason why we love reading the biographies and autobiographies of people long past.
[A pause.]
Nobody will ever completely figure anyone else out.
[He reaches up again to push glasses that aren't there, letting his hand fall back to the sidearm of the chair.]
I mean, let's be hypothetical here. Let's say that I really only was doing this just to figure your grand secret, to get my scoop on just who Mettaton is. But Mettaton...even if you gave me a book about yourself, listing every single thing you've ever done, from your creation till the very second you gave it to me, you know what would happen?
[He lets out a laugh.]
Sure, yes, I would know all that you did. I could possibly surmise your motivations, get an understanding of your life story. But people aren't just scoops, Mettaton. Even if I read all that, I would never be able to completely understand you. Appreciate you from a distance, yes, analyze you, possibly, but figure you out completely? It's impossible. You have depths that are impossible to grasp, things that lie beyond consciousness. Now, how in the world could I get bored with that?
[People are practically endless in terms of just how much they have to offer. They're not two-dimensional characters who cavort around in fairy tale roles that lay out exactly who they are at a glance. They're villains and heroes and sidekicks and dragons and helpful witches and castles all in one.]
But hypotheticals aside, I don't like you because I want to illuminate every single dark corner of the metaphorical Mettaton room. That's silly. And about the physical stuff..look, you said it yourself, while physical things are a part of romance, it's not like I'm all that concerned with it. Is it good? Sure. Can I live without it? Of course I can.
[He shakes his head.]
You're nice to talk to. You somehow tolerate me, which I know is a feat in and of itself. You command the stage of the world and its many players like a true celebrity. You sing well, dance well. You have the motivation to help many, though some may think that you don't. There's a lot here I could say about you, Mettaton, that has nothing to do with seeing what makes you tick. They're just qualities I like in you as you are.
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This is the worst. He hates this. If he could stand to be around this poetic jerk for more than five minutes at a time, he might fall in love.]
YOU IDIOT... I CAN'T EVEN CRY... [He's talking to himself because good lord does this shaky voice sound like he's trying despite himself, but the insult stands for both of them.
This is what Giorno was talking about, Mettaton. This is that moment where you either run away and regret it or stay and just hope that you don't. It's always so much easier to go for the known regret. That's what he's always done.
Fine. Fine. Okay.
There's a burst of light and smoke, and he's back to the form Keats is definitely more used to. The cloak comes with it, automatically, to reflect tears that aren't actually there. It shudders off in an instant, leaving just... metal.
Just Mettaton.]
What if I can't? Live without it?
[Ugh, he can see himself in the mirror and it looks like he's dying. Like he's having to explain to someone that he only has one more day to live. His entire body is shaking. He didn't even think that could happen.]
...You don't understand. You can never understand what it is spend years, decades, every day pretending you'll have some happily ever after where you're finally complete and your one true love sweeps you off your feet and kisses you and every horrible thing you did and all the pain you went through ends up worth it. You don't know what it's like to never be able to interact with the world. You don't understand how suffocating it is to never touch or taste or dream or--
[He doesn't even need to breathe. Why is he acting like he needs to catch his breath?]
...I know you like me. I'm exquisite. And I... somehow like you, [he croaks out, mumbling over the words.
Okay. Okay.
Leave now and know you'll regret it. Stay and you might not.
Okay.
He's still shaking, but it's with the sort of preemptive anger that comes with revealing anything you don't want to. When you want to trust someone so much, but the fear of that coming back to haunt you (haha) turns you bitter at just the thought of it.]
...If I show you something, you have to promise me that it will never leave this room. I mean it. You will regret for the rest of your life that I trusted you and you betrayed it. I can ensure that.
Do you understand?
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[And yet, everything is wonderful and crystal clear to him.]
[Mettaton is shaking with emotion, and honestly, probably for the first time in his godforsaken life, there's a part of Keats that just twinges with a hard, sharp feeling of genuine concern and worry. God, what's with him. He wants to come around to the other, to break his personal space, ensure he's okay. He's been protective before, he's felt that, but this feels far different and far more confusing.]
[Confusing in a good way, probably. He doesn't know. He's not shaking himself, but his mind is currently going a mile a minute because he knows that Mettaton must be making a huge step for him and he's absolutely terrified that there's a possibility he might mess this up.]
You're right. I don't understand that. I can try my best to, though, for you... [He says, nodding, because yes, of course, he's never been a robot. He can't grasp all that Mettaton's been through. But at least, he can attempt to just take it all in, accommodate where he must.]
You somehow like me, huh? [That's...a nice feeling. Now he's feeling his cheeks warm, the terrible traitors.]
[But enough about him, this is Mettaton's moment. Keats feels like there's some kind of weight hanging over him, nerve-wracking to acknowledge. Whatever this is, it's serious. He has no doubt that the robot will pop his head off if he even makes a misstep.]
[He gulps, but nods nevertheless, his expression determined.]
I do. [He nods again.] I wouldn't dare to go against your trust. Not in a million years. My lips are sealed.
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Breathe. Okay. Okay. Okay.
Mettaton holds out his hands, instructing the other not to come any closer as he steps back. He pushes himself away from the chair, away from the table, until there's a soft thunk of him hitting the wall.
Okay.
There's a hiss. On his torso, where a stomach should be, lies a chamber with a pink heart. The sides of it expand and open, hydraulics forcing them apart like a mouth opening to show a set of teeth. The glass in the way drops out and away.
Okay...
His joints of his fingers are squeaking with how hard he's curling them into fists. With another unnecessary breath, the heart, his core, leaves its chamber. It floats forward, to where Mettaton had been a moment ago. It slows, as if hesitant, before resuming its path.
Once it's halfway across the table, Mettaton's body shudders and his head lolls forward, deactivating.
Okay.
Closer, close enough to be in arm's reach. Then closer, floating up and toward Keats' face. It's pink and seemingly metal like the rest of him. There's rivets on each side and vents for steam. Unlike the rest of his body, though, this seems... life-like. Like some living spirit possessed some fancy metal-work and decided to call it home.
It floats forward again and presses itself against his cheek.
...it immediately draws back because what the hell-]
i thought your face would be softer, what the hell is that, [the core squeaks, the voice filtering out of it far softer and significantly less mechanized than any other time Mettaton's spoken. It's definitely him, just... not as loud. More wispy, almost echoing.
Like a ghost.]
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[He really doesn't. Sure, he's probably the type who thinks he's savvy enough to guess the end of a mystery. But here, he has no clue. Mettaton is moving, and Keats almost stands, unsure what's going on.]
[And then, Mettaton just...opens.]
[Keats' own heart almost jumps into his throat, because for a brief moment, when he sees Mettaton's head just loll forward, he almost thinks Mettaton is dead.]
[Except as soon as the thought comes, something is moving towards him. A heart, just floating on over, metallic in nature, but hovering on its own with no discernible logical reason as to why it's doing so.]
[And then it touches his face.]
[And it speaks.]
[Keats stares at the heart. And stares. And stares, because his mind has gone completely blank. A talking heart is touching his cheek. He opens his mouth, trying to drum up any vestiges of normal though to piece together what he's seeing.]
Your soul.
[It has to be. But yet, there's something off. It's not like he comes from Mettaton's world, maybe this is normal. Maybe hearts are supposed to be like this, who knows? But the way it speaks, the way it moves, even the way it sounds...]
[Keats reaches up, gingerly, his fingertips gently brushing up against the heart.]
It isn't artificial, is it...?
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He's so content to finally feel someone touching him that Mettaton almost misses Keats' comment.]
...
[So. He caught on, huh?
Leave and regret it. Stay and hope you don't...]
when... w-when alphys met me, i'd completely given up hope on finding a body that looked the way i wanted it to. i wanted to be a star. i wanted people to notice me, for once. i wanted to be able to interact with everyone else, the way... the way people like me always do. people that... [Even now, even when it's totally obvious, he's still choking over the words. He can't bring himself to say it. "People that are ghosts."] people that don't have bodies.
[Sigh. An exhale of warm steam leaves his vents.]
...we made a deal: i'd possess a rudimentary body she built and pretend she made me, and she'd give me the body i always wanted once she became the royal scientist.
...i'm sorry. [I'm sorry this is what you have feelings for. I'm sorry I'm a liar. I'm sorry I'm still terrified of you knowing.]
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[Keats finds his voice again, watching as the heart nestles into his hand.]
Ah, if I have to be honest, I sometimes thought that you were simply too complex to just be a robot, you know? Where I come from, robots may dance and sing, but they can't feel. [He's too alive. Too far outside what he would expect of a program.]
[He reaches forward with his other hand, cautiously, brushing against the heart with a thumb. Mettaton expects him to feel upset or shocked. While he's surprised, he doesn't feel like be's betrayed or he's shocked to the point of disbelief.]
[Honestly...he feels more fond than ever. It's strange, how just feeling the literal pulsing heart of someone he's grown to care of can make him feel so warm himself.]
Look at you. I mean, a robot is one thing, but knowing that everything you do, all your star power, is all because of you... [He lets out a laugh.] Oh, Mettaton. You do things I'd never dream of doing. You're amazing.
[Moments like these just have to call for a once-in-a-blue-moon sincere compliment from Keats.]
Were you always without a body, before this happened? [Because he has a sense of what "without bodies" could mean, because the first thing he does think of when he hears those words is "spirits", but he wants to make sure.] I mean, I can't imagine what that's like, just...not being able to interact with the physical world.
[He feels a fleeting pang of fear in his chest. It's lucky that he himself, is physical.]
[He vaguely recalls memories of the dead, acting out scenes from the past forevermore, unable to be touched or held, unable to feel anything at all.]
[...It's very lucky he's physical.]
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His heart already glows by itself, bright and pink as benefiting Mettaton's... himselfness. Now? Encompassed in warmth as his surface is caressed? As this idiot, this horrible puppet master that's controlling his emotions, manages to compliment him, to call him amazing...?
He's glowing brighter. More steam pours from his seams as a tiny oh... leaves his body. Not fair. This isn't fair.
What's Keats even asking? ...oh. That.]
i... i don't know. i know the connotation on the surface - a soul only comes from something that used to be alive, but... i don't remember being anything other than,
[Say it. Just say it. Keats already knows. You already know. This isn't rocket science, it's a junior jumble.]
than a ghost.
[Sigh. He's trying and failing miserably to sink further into Keats' hands, to hide.]
haha... of course a nerd finds this interesting instead of horrifying. even other monsters are scared of what i was... i guess this really does explain a lot, huh?
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[It's like something's turned off the light, and he's left in cold darkness. He feels a chill pass through his body. It's not because of Mettaton, because of course he's talking about himself. But something in that statement resonates, sends chills through his chest.]
[He...he understands that.]
[He understands that far too well.]
I-is that so? [He says, realizing that there's now a waver in his voice where there wasn't one before. He tries, valiantly, to keep his eyes on Mettaton, to use that warm glow as an anchor.]
[He feels his hands shaking.]
How could anything be afraid of you...? You're about as frightening as a kitten! [Well, like this, at least. When he's a robot, he could probably break a few of his bones without even blinking.] I mean, no offense, but...really, this is really hardly anything to be scared of. Even if you're a ghost, it...it doesn't matter.
[He can't fight off this strange, oppressive feeling. That burden of anxiety, making his heart rush in his chest. I don't remember being anything other than a ghost. Keats lets out a shaking sigh, trying to put on a brave smile.]
[He can't get rid of this feeling. Mettaton is, quite literally, baring his heart for him. And he has let this build up for far, far too long.]
Hey, Mettaton. Can I...can I tell you something?
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He's on the verge of explaining this when he realizes the hands that are holding him are quaking. As is Keats' voice... And that smile, that painfully fake smile...
A small burst of static leaves his core, leaving tingles on the other man's skin. It's the closest thing he has to a reassuring touch without any hands of his own.]
you desperately want to kiss me, yes, i know. you have my permission. i'm very hard to resist.
[He's kidding. Look at him. He's a dang metal heart.
Anyway.]
...are you alright? [Ha...] you look like you've seen a ghost.
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[He shakes his head.]
You can't tell this to anyone, please... [What's wrong with him? He feels so scared, so worried, like he's a child facing his worst nightmare.]
Mettaton...
[His tongue feels so heavy in his throat. It's so hard to say. It's so, so hard to say. He already feels tears stinging in his eyes and he raises a hand to his face to try to cover that.]
I-I'm not human.
[There it is. The final truth. The one statement that has tormented him over and over again for the last seventeen years.]
I don't think I ever was.
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Oh...]
that other form... that's what you really are, isn't it...?
[...somehow, it's not the news that's shocking. If anything, it's just confirmation to something he was already piecing together: Keats isn't normal. He's too powerful. Him and Ellen meeting seemed like too much of a coincidence, his role with her, a stranger in a strange world, too significant. And then, when he changed into that being with white hair and piercing blue eyes...
It's not the confession itself that's surprising, that's twisting his heart in pain. It's the reaction. The emotions behind it.
Keats is selfish. He's emotionally withdrawn. He's sweet sometimes, but cruel the next. Mettaton's never seen him this devastated. He's never seen him cry.
The lights in the core dim, but it lets out another burst of static. It's okay. It's alright.]
hey... you're in good company, right?
i won't tell anyone i'm dating a faery if you don't tell anyone you're seeing a ghost.
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[It's somehow the most relieving and the most catastrophic feeling in the world, to admit that. It's been seventeen years. He's denied everything he possibly could. Everything just to keep this lie alive.]
Ha, I suppose. We're kind of two peas in a pod here. [He lets out a breathless laugh, his fingers gently wrapping around Mettaton's heart.] I'm not even...I'm not even a faery. I'm not even completely sure of what I am, I'm just...
[Everything is still vague. He's still from a point in time where not everything has been laid out in front of him. Some of the truth is still in the dark only because he simply hasn't found it, yet.]
I've told myself lies. So many lies. The magazine I work for probably doesn't even exist anymore. [Now his voice is cracking.] I-it's just been one great farce. I've got memories in my head that never belonged to me.
[He gestures to his head.]
Herve's memories. But I'm not him.
[He never was. He laughs again, because that's all he feels he can do, now. Because his life is that much of a joke.]
I'm just something between life and death. A Half-life. [His chest shakes with laughter. It's not happy.] Ah, look at us, Mettaton. A ghost and a thing that lives in the land of the dead.
[He gazes down at the heart, raising a hand to wipe at his eyes.]
Nevertheless...we do make a good pair, don't we?
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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."
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[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?
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[He's flittering around the other's head now, like some sort of shiny, irritated butterfly, spinning to and fro in the air as he "rants". He's joking. It's obvious he's just joking. It's to clear the mood, to make Keats laugh again. Mettaton doesn't care what he is. He's still handsome and thoroughly impossible to deal with at any given moment. He still likes Mettaton despite the robot's many, many denied flaws, despite how many times Mettaton's tried to chase him away.
He really does deserve that "putting up with Mettaton" award.]
i am always nice! i have a reining supremacy in the sunshine championships. you fell into my dark prison of passion entirely due to my innate kindness and amazing butt - you don't get to play the "oh, hohoho, who are you and what did you do with mettaton" card, buff nerd.
[He stills, finally, the light pouring from him pulsing brighter. He twist slightly in the air, as if shyly shifting his weight from foot to foot.]
but... i mean...
[He draws closer.]
if you're offering... since you're so nice and all...
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