[Mettaton can feel Emet-Selch tensing. He felt it from the start, and he anticipated this sort of reaction before it even happened. It's why he's able to continue his explanation with such ease. There wasn't any way of dusting the matter with sugar to make it go down sweeter, and Mettaton's aware of Emet-Selch's view of souls, of transience and permanence... And monster souls are among the most fragile he's heard of.
It was the virtue that his own lifespan could go on and on, as long as his body didn't deteriorate, that left him any different from humanity. But once dead, he knew: Mettaton would be gone for. He would be a memory, and though he fancies that he'd be a bright classic, he knows Emet-Selch would call it a fading one. But in the end, Mettaton's—and every other monster's—life was a brittle existence, moreso than any human could dream of. Easily killed by the intent of a strike, and gone for good once killed... They were things he knew, in combination, would disturb Emet-Selch.
Hearing the small utterance on Emet-Selch's part, Mettaton continues petting the back of his neck. There's nothing he can say to change this truth. It's not like Mettaton chose to be generated as a monster. His gaze scrolls along the floor. Had he ever viewed his own circumstance as cruel?]
It doesn't have to be cruel, dear.
[Because monsters would live their lives through if given the chance to, and some of them would supersede old age for even millennia. Ghosts like himself often perished to poorly-kept hosts, as he understood... But as long as cruelty itself wasn't enacted upon him in turn, he would be okay.
The Puca squeezes Emet-Selch back, the bid to give him a show of strength, but his embrace is only marginally tighter than the last. And it drains him, but he feels pride swell in himself at the willpower it took to make that happen. With a smile he's sure to press against Emet-Selch's cheek, the Puca speaks low and intimate, voice riding sweet inflection thick with the desire to reassure.]
I've been living on the Surface for months. I haven't heard a whisper about humans hurting any monsters, or vice versa. [He plants a warm, wet kiss against his lover's cheek and lingers there for long, too long; long enough to feel compelled to kiss him again.] I'll be all right. And even then... Here, you can see clearly that my soul's been changed, can't you? Those rules don't apply to me here...
[He wouldn't be alive if it weren't for the redefining of his soul to better fit a harsher world. (But he knew that his own world could be just as cruel, even if it wasn't.) He squeezes Emet-Selch again. This time, he musters the strength to keep him squeezed, gripping onto his own arms to better help himself keep a hold on his Bonded lover.
Emet-Selch's disused hand presses to his heart container. Mettaton softens, tenderness washing over him and forcing him into a stammer around sentiment, around no vocalization at all. His heart swells, his head swims, and he feels the sorrowful, fearful transference of his lover's feelings. Of course this news would sadden him... It saddened Mettaton to hold that fragmented crystal in his hand, knowing of Emet-Selch's fate, and it hurt Emet-Selch to know just how... impermanent a monster's soul could be. Their souls made up their being and when struck, when they give up, so too do their souls dissolve into nothingness. Mettaton sighs.
Wordless, there's still the hanging impression in the air between them that he has something more to express.
The sound of mechanical clicking is soft and mostly smooth, but there's a bit more grinding than usual: Mettaton had been struck against his waist by his assailant, after all, which was effective enough at ending his already sickened life here under the sister moons of Geardagas. The glass that protects his core struggles to slide away, getting stuck somewhat as greater evidence that his body's not in its greatest shape despite appearing mostly intact... But his waist opens against Emet-Selch's tender hand, and Mettaton nudges himself closer, hoping to urge Emet-Selch to reach inside of his waist, to grasp for his prize, the core that rightfully belonged to him.]
[They're not even in his own world: his soul is more stable now, less of a glass bulb and given the properties it needs to survive in a world like this. Even becoming a Puca, he wonders, is something of an adaptation his body took on to enable his survival: he could sleep to regenerate power, he could shapeshift to blend into crowds when he needed it, and he could feel, he could taste, he could live and experience the world brilliantly. It was as he should be, in this world. But back home... He wanted Emet-Selch there for his companionship. He wanted to guard him, to hold him and to possess him, and he knew Emet-Selch would want to protect him in return.
But Mettaton also has faith that humans would continue to be kind. There was nothing to fear.]
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It was the virtue that his own lifespan could go on and on, as long as his body didn't deteriorate, that left him any different from humanity. But once dead, he knew: Mettaton would be gone for. He would be a memory, and though he fancies that he'd be a bright classic, he knows Emet-Selch would call it a fading one. But in the end, Mettaton's—and every other monster's—life was a brittle existence, moreso than any human could dream of. Easily killed by the intent of a strike, and gone for good once killed... They were things he knew, in combination, would disturb Emet-Selch.
He's more glad the Ascian didn't know if this before he died. Not because he thought Emet-Selch wouldn't try regardless, but because the stress and despair it would have put his poor fiancé through would have strained even his own heart to know of, more than it already did.
Hearing the small utterance on Emet-Selch's part, Mettaton continues petting the back of his neck. There's nothing he can say to change this truth. It's not like Mettaton chose to be generated as a monster. His gaze scrolls along the floor. Had he ever viewed his own circumstance as cruel?]
It doesn't have to be cruel, dear.
[Because monsters would live their lives through if given the chance to, and some of them would supersede old age for even millennia. Ghosts like himself often perished to poorly-kept hosts, as he understood... But as long as cruelty itself wasn't enacted upon him in turn, he would be okay.
The Puca squeezes Emet-Selch back, the bid to give him a show of strength, but his embrace is only marginally tighter than the last. And it drains him, but he feels pride swell in himself at the willpower it took to make that happen. With a smile he's sure to press against Emet-Selch's cheek, the Puca speaks low and intimate, voice riding sweet inflection thick with the desire to reassure.]
I've been living on the Surface for months. I haven't heard a whisper about humans hurting any monsters, or vice versa. [He plants a warm, wet kiss against his lover's cheek and lingers there for long, too long; long enough to feel compelled to kiss him again.] I'll be all right. And even then... Here, you can see clearly that my soul's been changed, can't you? Those rules don't apply to me here...
[He wouldn't be alive if it weren't for the redefining of his soul to better fit a harsher world. (But he knew that his own world could be just as cruel, even if it wasn't.) He squeezes Emet-Selch again. This time, he musters the strength to keep him squeezed, gripping onto his own arms to better help himself keep a hold on his Bonded lover.
Emet-Selch's disused hand presses to his heart container. Mettaton softens, tenderness washing over him and forcing him into a stammer around sentiment, around no vocalization at all. His heart swells, his head swims, and he feels the sorrowful, fearful transference of his lover's feelings. Of course this news would sadden him... It saddened Mettaton to hold that fragmented crystal in his hand, knowing of Emet-Selch's fate, and it hurt Emet-Selch to know just how... impermanent a monster's soul could be. Their souls made up their being and when struck, when they give up, so too do their souls dissolve into nothingness. Mettaton sighs.
Wordless, there's still the hanging impression in the air between them that he has something more to express.
The sound of mechanical clicking is soft and mostly smooth, but there's a bit more grinding than usual: Mettaton had been struck against his waist by his assailant, after all, which was effective enough at ending his already sickened life here under the sister moons of Geardagas. The glass that protects his core struggles to slide away, getting stuck somewhat as greater evidence that his body's not in its greatest shape despite appearing mostly intact... But his waist opens against Emet-Selch's tender hand, and Mettaton nudges himself closer, hoping to urge Emet-Selch to reach inside of his waist, to grasp for his prize, the core that rightfully belonged to him.]
Besides, darling. This... I'm yours. You'd protect me, wouldn't you? And I'd protect you, too.
[They're not even in his own world: his soul is more stable now, less of a glass bulb and given the properties it needs to survive in a world like this. Even becoming a Puca, he wonders, is something of an adaptation his body took on to enable his survival: he could sleep to regenerate power, he could shapeshift to blend into crowds when he needed it, and he could feel, he could taste, he could live and experience the world brilliantly. It was as he should be, in this world. But back home... He wanted Emet-Selch there for his companionship. He wanted to guard him, to hold him and to possess him, and he knew Emet-Selch would want to protect him in return.
But Mettaton also has faith that humans would continue to be kind. There was nothing to fear.]