[Neither of them wanted to consider the other dead at home, or at all. Mettaton wasn't dead in his own world, and hopefully never would be, so long as his body was kept in good condition. Seeing him dead here was terrible enough; Emet-Selch didn't want to think about it happening anywhere else. Even if it amused a little to imagine Mettaton having to deal with his own manner of afterlife- a time of nothing but rumination and memory, with no attention paid to him at all- it would be torture for the idol. It amused but also saddened, as he rubs his face a little more against his. For all that he was content enough with his own demise, Emet-Selch wondered if he would have been so if he'd remembered all of this. At home, with his task ended, there had been little else to live for. It was better to drift, and to dream instead of the past....
But here, he was alive and had a reason to be. He had someone to live for, and the impossibility of not being alone. Damaged as their Bond still was, Emet-Selch drinks it in, this closeness to his own soul, and the sensation of a body against his own. If Mettaton was glad he was here, then- he was glad to yet be here, feeling the way the puca nuzzled into his hair, and the effort he took to hold him tight. So frequently it felt he was caught by him, and there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
It wasn't hard to recall the extra restraints of the night he'd returned to his mirror, and for all that Mettaton already had all of the supplies at hand, in readiness, it had felt- appropriate, to introduce them then. Even if it had been a false sort of comfort, it had been good to have, the idea that if he were only tied up securely enough, if he gave up control enough to his lover, then he would have to remain. And they'd both enjoyed it... intensely.
But those weren't thoughts that Emet-Selch could indulge in too far either; his limbs may not have been bound, but he was no less restrained now. Just more unwantedly so, by weakness, by poor condition.
So he takes the stroke to his neck, turning his head to softly kiss the side of the puca's face.
Mettaton speaks, and from a slow nestling, Emet-Selch stills. And from there, tenses, against his body and under his touch. To not have a cycle of rebirth at all? To cease existing entirely, not as an individual soul meeting an unusual and particular destruction, but as a rule, as a whole? An entire population of simple, brilliant lives that just- stop. Permanently and utterly.
'Our souls are destroyed upon death.' It didn't matter what happens to humans, apart from the potential insult that they, possibly, existed in their own cycle of rebirth. But one that monsters were somehow excluded from. And considering how fragile they were... it horrified. It was wrong (He didn't want to think of Mettaton facing that fate. He'd made himself vulnerable by corporealizing... though protected somewhat by his robotic frame. But the glass protecting his core felt far too fragile now. Without being conscious of it, his right hand shifts, to work between them, to rest over gently glowing glass.
It was terrible to think of him dying at all... but to hear that there was no recourse, no way of finding his soul again in his next life....
He shuddered. At least- at least his soul had been made more adamant in this place. Even if he had known of this beforehand, Emet-Selch would have still insisted they try to revive him- but how lesser his hope would have been.)
He wanted to protest or deny it- that Mettaton just didn't know of what happened to monsters after their death. But he knew Mettaton could see souls, that monsters operated that way. If anyone could tell, surely they could... they would be able to tell whether there was anything left or not.]
Mettaton. That's....
[Disturbing. Immensely so. Even his life here felt more precarious than it had moments prior, even with having proof that he could be restored by this world's magic.]
Cruel.
[The fingers at Mettaton's side tighten, but his muscles feel otherwise locked into place, as he's curled against him. He had no other word for it.]
no subject
But here, he was alive and had a reason to be. He had someone to live for, and the impossibility of not being alone. Damaged as their Bond still was, Emet-Selch drinks it in, this closeness to his own soul, and the sensation of a body against his own. If Mettaton was glad he was here, then- he was glad to yet be here, feeling the way the puca nuzzled into his hair, and the effort he took to hold him tight. So frequently it felt he was caught by him, and there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
It wasn't hard to recall the extra restraints of the night he'd returned to his mirror, and for all that Mettaton already had all of the supplies at hand, in readiness, it had felt- appropriate, to introduce them then. Even if it had been a false sort of comfort, it had been good to have, the idea that if he were only tied up securely enough, if he gave up control enough to his lover, then he would have to remain. And they'd both enjoyed it... intensely.
But those weren't thoughts that Emet-Selch could indulge in too far either; his limbs may not have been bound, but he was no less restrained now. Just more unwantedly so, by weakness, by poor condition.
So he takes the stroke to his neck, turning his head to softly kiss the side of the puca's face.
Mettaton speaks, and from a slow nestling, Emet-Selch stills. And from there, tenses, against his body and under his touch. To not have a cycle of rebirth at all? To cease existing entirely, not as an individual soul meeting an unusual and particular destruction, but as a rule, as a whole? An entire population of simple, brilliant lives that just- stop. Permanently and utterly.
'Our souls are destroyed upon death.' It didn't matter what happens to humans, apart from the potential insult that they, possibly, existed in their own cycle of rebirth. But one that monsters were somehow excluded from. And considering how fragile they were... it horrified. It was wrong (He didn't want to think of Mettaton facing that fate. He'd made himself vulnerable by corporealizing... though protected somewhat by his robotic frame. But the glass protecting his core felt far too fragile now. Without being conscious of it, his right hand shifts, to work between them, to rest over gently glowing glass.
It was terrible to think of him dying at all... but to hear that there was no recourse, no way of finding his soul again in his next life....
He shuddered. At least- at least his soul had been made more adamant in this place. Even if he had known of this beforehand, Emet-Selch would have still insisted they try to revive him- but how lesser his hope would have been.)
He wanted to protest or deny it- that Mettaton just didn't know of what happened to monsters after their death. But he knew Mettaton could see souls, that monsters operated that way. If anyone could tell, surely they could... they would be able to tell whether there was anything left or not.]
Mettaton. That's....
[Disturbing. Immensely so. Even his life here felt more precarious than it had moments prior, even with having proof that he could be restored by this world's magic.]
Cruel.
[The fingers at Mettaton's side tighten, but his muscles feel otherwise locked into place, as he's curled against him. He had no other word for it.]