[There's a pause, and then, suddenly, Keats lets out a laugh. Because he has to. Because he has to cover up that uncomfortable twitch that's gone through him at that statement, the sudden spike of fear in his chest.]

That can't be possible. The poor boy died seventeen years ago, Mettaton.

[He shrugs his shoulders lightly.] You can listen to my heart with that stethoscope you stole if you think I'm lying. What Herve had - that Herve had - it was truly a condition he would never be able to live that long with. My heart's nice and healthy.

[He smiles, but there's something about it that feels very fake.]

The fact that we shared names is merely coincidence. It's hardly like he was the only Herve in the world.