[The sound of Mettaton humming had been a distraction, though not a frustrating one, and the same went with the squeeze to his side. It was the sort of thing he would've found irritating had it been anyone else, but it was hard to mind the divided attention now (though was it really divided when it was split between typing a reply to Mettaton, and paying attention to Mettaton in person?).
And while he waits for the puca's own reply, his eyes close as his head rests against the robot's chest. It was peaceful, almost, listening to the click of his claw as Mettaton typed, along with the softer, more intermittent humming. A familiar tune. In the distance, there are the general sounds of the hospital, muted behind their closed door. A droning easier to tune out, when he had his lover's sounds to focus on. Sounds that do nearly cause him to nod off entirely again, as though to prove Mettaton's claim of relaxing him through his voice. A claim that Emet-Selch doesn't even immediately read, as he's roused first by being spoken to directly. By having to parse what was being said instead of just enjoying the tone. He's still nearly distracted again by the stroke from his side to his hip, humming a small approving note at it.]
...Mm? [Give him a minute. Give him a little more, as he's distracted by reading the message on his watch as well, blinking down at that, before having to remember what Mettaton had said. Pushing himself up a little in order to look at his face, his frown is one of sleepy habit, a common sight.] --I don't know what you expect parliament to do about disappearances. Outlaw it? Fine anyone caught wandering back to their mirror without a permit?
[Comments given with a huff of breath, looking back down in order to type as well. Inevitably resting his head against him too.]
I won't argue that you have a range.
[It was a good range, and a softer comment to make, really. And he nearly stops there, thumb tapping slowly against the watch as his thoughts drift. But he finally resumes, typing entirely with one thumb as well (his left, of course; his right arm is being kept tucked against himself, and even when he wasn't ignoring it, his right hand didn't have the dexterity to use the watch well at all).]
Some humans. [There were plenty- the majority, even- who died without overcoming anything. To admit that any did at all- it's more than Emet-Selch would have done in the past.] Plenty want to leave. Perhaps even the majority. That they remain implies desire has nothing to do with it.
no subject
And while he waits for the puca's own reply, his eyes close as his head rests against the robot's chest. It was peaceful, almost, listening to the click of his claw as Mettaton typed, along with the softer, more intermittent humming. A familiar tune. In the distance, there are the general sounds of the hospital, muted behind their closed door. A droning easier to tune out, when he had his lover's sounds to focus on. Sounds that do nearly cause him to nod off entirely again, as though to prove Mettaton's claim of relaxing him through his voice. A claim that Emet-Selch doesn't even immediately read, as he's roused first by being spoken to directly. By having to parse what was being said instead of just enjoying the tone. He's still nearly distracted again by the stroke from his side to his hip, humming a small approving note at it.]
...Mm? [Give him a minute. Give him a little more, as he's distracted by reading the message on his watch as well, blinking down at that, before having to remember what Mettaton had said. Pushing himself up a little in order to look at his face, his frown is one of sleepy habit, a common sight.] --I don't know what you expect parliament to do about disappearances. Outlaw it? Fine anyone caught wandering back to their mirror without a permit?
[Comments given with a huff of breath, looking back down in order to type as well. Inevitably resting his head against him too.]
I won't argue that you have a range.
[It was a good range, and a softer comment to make, really. And he nearly stops there, thumb tapping slowly against the watch as his thoughts drift. But he finally resumes, typing entirely with one thumb as well (his left, of course; his right arm is being kept tucked against himself, and even when he wasn't ignoring it, his right hand didn't have the dexterity to use the watch well at all).]
Some humans. [There were plenty- the majority, even- who died without overcoming anything. To admit that any did at all- it's more than Emet-Selch would have done in the past.] Plenty want to leave. Perhaps even the majority. That they remain implies desire has nothing to do with it.