[Even though Mettaton's soul had always struck him as brittle, especially in comparison to the pressure of his own- that had only spoke of how easy it would be for something to kill him, not... not how permanently that he would remain dead. It was the worst sort of transience, one he'd never come across, and for Mettaton to claim that it wasn't cruel- he couldn't see it. Couldn't understand it.
Arms tighten more around him, in a grip that holds more than Emet-Selch would have expected of it; lips are pressed to his cheek, and he can feel his lover's smile against skin. An effort to reassure, and a voice close to his ear, explaining how he would be fine. But the Ascian makes a low, choked noise of disbelief. Here, perhaps, Mettaton would be safe- assuming nothing else killed him, and assuming that if something did, that he would be brought to hospital and the doctors would remember in time that this machine required a resurrection. It was a lot of assumptions, and a margin of safety that relied on remaining on this star- something that they both knew they had no control over.
But his soul was fragile again back on his home world, if less so than a normal monster's. Yet in comparison to the brutality that he knew humans were capable of- inevitably Mettaton would run out of luck. A period of months in safety, with no conflict between human and monster... what good was that? Peaces that had persisted for years could be broken in hours, and when one side was as delicate as monsterkind- they would be crushed once again. And his lover with them.
Even a kiss that lingering couldn't sooth him, couldn't distract him, and he remains tense, disturbed, unsettled. It wasn't as though he wouldn't be stricken already from any news of Mettaton's death, but this was ever more absolute. He shakes his head against him, a refusal of it all- that any part of this was alright, that the puca's soul being more durable here changed much of anything.
But there was more to Mettaton's response than words or touch or voice. The Ascian could feel it, as he remains taut against his body, unable to relax, no matter how much this state drained him.
Emet-Selch's emotional state was naturally made somewhat more fragile after his death. After Mettaton's death, after their subsequent revivals. And at the sound, one that he now recognized, that he didn't need to look down to see glass sliding away (if not nearly as smoothly as it had before- something that in itself made the sound feel more fraught than it should have, more dangerous), his breath catches. The warm barrier against his fingers opens up, allowing his hand access to the interior of his waist, to the robot's core.
Words follow, as he reaches inside.]
I didn't.
[It's hoarse, roughened, decided. Forehead pressed to Mettaton's neck, he shivers, as weakened fingers struggle to wrap around that offered core. There's no attempt to remove it from his body; with his grip so unreliable, Emet-Selch couldn't risk it. Considering their conversation, he especially couldn't risk it, as though pulling his core out would leave him in immediate mortal danger. It was heavy enough that his hand would've had a hard time of it anyway....
But it was warm, so warm against his fingers, against a hand damaged and frail. His lover's essence was contained in this heart-shaped package- something that both touched and scared him to know. It could be so easily lost.
The witch shakes his head again; his grip can't really tighten, but it twitches, attempts to stroke at that core.]
You still died. We both did.
[They possessed each other, they would protect each other- but he couldn't, he hadn't. And if Mettaton ever left without him, he especially wouldn't be able to.]
no subject
Arms tighten more around him, in a grip that holds more than Emet-Selch would have expected of it; lips are pressed to his cheek, and he can feel his lover's smile against skin. An effort to reassure, and a voice close to his ear, explaining how he would be fine. But the Ascian makes a low, choked noise of disbelief. Here, perhaps, Mettaton would be safe- assuming nothing else killed him, and assuming that if something did, that he would be brought to hospital and the doctors would remember in time that this machine required a resurrection. It was a lot of assumptions, and a margin of safety that relied on remaining on this star- something that they both knew they had no control over.
But his soul was fragile again back on his home world, if less so than a normal monster's. Yet in comparison to the brutality that he knew humans were capable of- inevitably Mettaton would run out of luck. A period of months in safety, with no conflict between human and monster... what good was that? Peaces that had persisted for years could be broken in hours, and when one side was as delicate as monsterkind- they would be crushed once again. And his lover with them.
Even a kiss that lingering couldn't sooth him, couldn't distract him, and he remains tense, disturbed, unsettled. It wasn't as though he wouldn't be stricken already from any news of Mettaton's death, but this was ever more absolute. He shakes his head against him, a refusal of it all- that any part of this was alright, that the puca's soul being more durable here changed much of anything.
But there was more to Mettaton's response than words or touch or voice. The Ascian could feel it, as he remains taut against his body, unable to relax, no matter how much this state drained him.
Emet-Selch's emotional state was naturally made somewhat more fragile after his death. After Mettaton's death, after their subsequent revivals. And at the sound, one that he now recognized, that he didn't need to look down to see glass sliding away (if not nearly as smoothly as it had before- something that in itself made the sound feel more fraught than it should have, more dangerous), his breath catches. The warm barrier against his fingers opens up, allowing his hand access to the interior of his waist, to the robot's core.
Words follow, as he reaches inside.]
I didn't.
[It's hoarse, roughened, decided. Forehead pressed to Mettaton's neck, he shivers, as weakened fingers struggle to wrap around that offered core. There's no attempt to remove it from his body; with his grip so unreliable, Emet-Selch couldn't risk it. Considering their conversation, he especially couldn't risk it, as though pulling his core out would leave him in immediate mortal danger. It was heavy enough that his hand would've had a hard time of it anyway....
But it was warm, so warm against his fingers, against a hand damaged and frail. His lover's essence was contained in this heart-shaped package- something that both touched and scared him to know. It could be so easily lost.
The witch shakes his head again; his grip can't really tighten, but it twitches, attempts to stroke at that core.]
You still died. We both did.
[They possessed each other, they would protect each other- but he couldn't, he hadn't. And if Mettaton ever left without him, he especially wouldn't be able to.]