headlining | FUTUROLOGY IC INBOX

...Why are you sorry?

[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.]

[This son of a bitch. This sweet, caring jerk. What happened to the Keats he wanted to spin-kick directly into an ocean? Why is this happening?

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?

[I don't remember being anything other than a ghost.]

[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?

[How can anything be afraid of you? There's a lot to counter that with. Keats has never seen what a ghost really looks like. He's never seen them appear from seemingly nothing, or possess something, or attack someone. They're... Well. They're awfully spooky. At least, they are to everyone else.

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.

[He's grateful for the tingle, somehow reassuring despite it just coming from a talking heart, but it's still not enough to quell what Keats is feeling. It almost feels like he's just finally looked down after stepping off a cliff. For so long, he could pretend he wasn't about to fall, and now...]

[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.

[Oh.

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.

I think so, yes.

[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?

[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."

Edited (fixing some stuff) 2017-04-19 21:02 (UTC)

[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?

wha- no, hang on a second! go back!!

[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...

Edited (SHUT UP I CAN'T TYPE) 2017-04-20 03:21 (UTC)

Your dark prison of passion? [He lets out a particularly undignified snort.] Oh, goodness, please never say those words again. Ever.

[God, how can he take Mettaton seriously, saying things like that? In a way...he enjoys that. Sometimes it's nice to be all serious and logical and uncaring about everything else. But just to laugh and smile like this...it makes him feel warm. He always wants to feel warm, now. To feel like this...]

[He leans his chin on his hand, gesturing for Mettaton to come closer with his other hand.]

Come on now. Once in a lifetime opportunity here. Come here.

[He's going to say them again, especially if that's the reaction they get. There's no smile - he can't, not as a floating heart - but the light coming from his core grows even brighter as Keats laughs. Beams of white light shine through the vents, tinting the air with a soft halo.

Idiots. They're both such idiots.

He hovers closer as he's beckoned.]

don't make me throw up.

[Charming.

He presses himself against the other's lips. It's... warm. More than anything has the right to be. It... He can't kiss back, only able to offer another burst of static in return, but even being able to feel it in the first place is like a revelation. This is what all those songs are about. This is why every kiss ends in fireworks and the chorus always swells. This is why Audrey runs off with Seymour and how Robert breaks Giselle's curse.

...how sappy. This is the worst.

...

He might be losing control of himself and starting to slowly sink to the floor.]

[This is, admittedly, strange, but it isn't as if he's kissed Mettaton when the other can't kiss him back. Mettaton's heart is very warm, this time, and it seems Mettaton can actually feel the kiss. There's a tingle on his lips at the static, and even though Keats is not as likely to go into vivid romantic dreams just from this, he has to admit that, well, it's nice. This is nice.]

[And then he realizes Mettaton is sinking down.]

Hey, where do you think you're going? [He's going to move a hand to try to catch Mettaton before he reaches the floor.] I don't think you'll find anything down there.

[Wait, what's going on, was he falling? Is there-- oh, there's a hand. There's words.]

no, you're right. i shouldn't try to get on your level, [is the dreamy, yet instantly biting response. It's reflexive, he can't help it. Mettaton lets himself fall into Keats' hand, blearily staring into the middle distance with... however, he manages to see without eyes. His core pulses with a warm, calm light, as if breathing. This is nice. He never really thought this would happen.

Give him a minute. He's... having feelings.

This is new. Someone kissed him. Someone's holding him. They aren't scared or betrayed or leaving. They understand each other.]

...i wish i could kiss you...

No, actually, I changed my mind. Keep going further down, maybe you'll find where you belong.

[Keats is only more than happy to come up with a sharp comeback instantly. Still, he doesn't follow his words and doesn't let Mettaton go, only moving his hand back up carefully to bring back Mettaton's heart to eye level.]

[It's very calming, to see that heart, so incredibly alive despite the fact it's being inhabited by a ghost.]

Ah, if horses were wishes, beggars would ride... [He sighs and shakes his head, as if to say "ah, well, what can you do".] I'm sure we'll figure out a way around it. No doubt.

[Mettaton knows that was meant to be comforting, but bitterness swirls inside of him anyway. It's not fair. It's not fair to work for your dreams for so long and still be left incomplete. Keats should be holding him, the beautiful, long-legged star, not just... a heart. They should have been kissing or touching hands or anything months ago.

This is nice and it's incredible to not be rejected, but...]

i know...

ha. i guess i'm just...

[Sigh.]

sorry.

you can let me go now, cupcake. i can get back to my body on my own.

Edited 2017-04-30 03:47 (UTC)

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