aefenglom | video; un: METTATON

Entry tags:

video; un: METTATON

Name: Mettaton
Date: 02/20
Format: video
Warnings: mention of death (he's better now!), talk of the recent event (Cwyld, kidnappings)

[Propped up against a plain pillow in the Coven's infirmary is Mettaton. His manner is languid, slow, and his rabbit ears are in such poor shape that they no longer stand anymore, sore-ridden and flopped over. Cradled against his shoulder and chest is a man's head, dark haired with a shock of white at his bangs, fast asleep.

Ears aside, his hair... is perfect. He flashes a photogenic smile otherwise interrupted by rabbit-like teeth.]

Hey there, beauties! It's Mettaton again, coming to you live from the... infirmary. [Not very glamorous, suggests his flat tone.] My sincerest apologies to those of you who've encountered me over the past few weeks. I haven't been in my right mind!! And not only that, but I was infected with the Cwyld. It was horrible. Terrible! Disturbing! To clear things up: I don't actually endorse contracting the Cwyld. In fact... Oh my. I died, thanks in part to it.

In the end, I was offed by one of you lovely darlings, before I... Before it got too bad. I was told it was a duo! [Mettaton tilts his head.] If that encounter sounds familiar, get in touch, gorgeous! I want to thank you personally. I promise I don't bite much... Haha.

[The idol pauses heavily, stuck with a smile. This is the more taxing part of his broadcast, and there's a flash of remorse in his gaze. Mettaton is a practiced face, however, so he's able to pull himself together with startling ease despite the overall tone.]

I'm sure many of you know Mikasa Ackerman. It seems... she's departed all too recently. I looked for her. Everywhere. Trust me. [Mettaton sighs; it's clear he's trying to remain composed enough for conversation, but he allows a measure of genuine sorrow to soften his expression.] She's... one of my best friends. She's a remarkable human who never fails to entrance me, no matter how quiet and stoic. She's powerful, protective, and fierce, and you'd know what I meant if you've met her. She's amazing enough to dazzle yours truly!!

...I tried to tell Eren about Mikasa, but I couldn't reach him, either. If anyone knows where... if he's still here, would you be a dear and let me know? He still owes me money!!

[Mettaton smirks playfully, but it fades as he continues.]

Well. Ahem. As some of you may have known, Mikasa and Eren live in a perilous world. It didn't sound... [Mettaton glances aside, disturbed.] I can't help but wonder if she... If they'll be all right.

[A surprisingly thoughtful silence follows, but Mettaton's quick to shake off his reverie with a quiet sigh and a hard blink. He puts his best face forward and continues, addressing more the rest of the Mirrorbound.]

Speaking of perilous... After a week of disappearances, sickness, and kidnapping alike, how are you all doing? Talk to me, darlings. You aren't going this alone!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[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.

[(That totally counts as divided attention. Divided between two sources of Mettaton...)

As Mettaton types, Emet-Selch slips into a light doze. Mettaton smiles at him, typing away all the while and keeping up with his humming, until he has his outburst. The Puca gives him ample room to catch up with him, though he shifts his legs excitably in anticipation to give his answer.

Emet-Selch pushes himself up for greater alertness, and his default frown endears Mettaton enough for him to want to lean in to kiss him- and he nearly zones out just staring at him. But he resists- at least, until the Ascian settles down to type again. Mettaton catches him in a kiss that isn't quite on the mark, slightly off from being perfectly centered on his lips. He laughs, to follow up.]

Yes!! Of course. Make criminal the escape of Mirrorbound... And slap them with fines to make them cry! Ahaha.

[There, Mettaton settles back with a hum, rubbing Emet-Selch's hip in a circular motion. He watches the Ascian type for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. He has a range; Mettaton nods. Some humans; Mettaton will yield to that. And the last bit is more relevant to what he has to say to Emet-Selch, so he hums to that. He does type,]

My range is from heart-skipping sweet, to indulgently sexy. ❤️

Really though... [After a good pause to receive messages and a short intermission for typing of his own, MTT continues, leveling his gaze with Emet-Selch.] Nobody seems to know much about us. Not the Coven, not other civilizations, and not wise Dragons. Don't you think allocating some funds to understand us and the mirrors that bind us might shed some light on the matter? Who knows what we might find?

[Mettaton has been told that Parliament might consider it a matter for the Coven, not their business nor problem. But at least the question would be posed in a formal way, right? The Mirrorbound only had a council for Parliament, not for Coven-related matters.

He has his selfish hopes about this endeavor. How to learn to leave or stay, or how to control it... Or how to see into the mirror of somebody else, to see their future. To see how Mikasa's faring in her world, where Eren sought to stomp the world flat. But it's too soon to say what could come of it.]

[The eager agitation on Mettaton's part was familiar and endearing, the sort of thing he'd seen time and again whenever the puca was excited by something. Even if it was limited a bit by being in bed and only a bit post-death, it was well in evidence.

The slightly misaimed kiss nearly distracts Emet-Selch enough to lean up enough to chase after another, but he managed to return instead to word, to reply, to conversation. The continued attention to his hip was very pleasant though, and he shifts a bit in place, encouraging it.

Mettaton's typed response gets a sigh, but no protest. Nor does he bother typing at all this time, instead dropping his watch back in his lap for the time being, as he rests against the puca. Focusing instead on the meat of Mettaton's suggestions, he looks back up to him as he replies.]

If you think funds will be enough to solve mysteries....

[But it was an appealing thought, if there was anything to discover. Anything that they could do to control being here- as that's entirely where his thoughts first go at the idea. Understanding was one thing, but it would have to be utilized- and specifically in that direction. Or else it was pointless.]

Considering no one knows anything, and that all seem content to view us as an unknowable miracle or blight, depending... where does one even start?

[It was difficult to get any sort of hopes up, not with an idea so unrealized, no matter how attractive.]

[The Puca can tell Emet-Selch's inclination to chase him for a follow-up kiss, and he waits to see what the Ascian will do... only to find that when he doesn't kiss him, he himself wants to kiss him again all that much more. The tease of restraint: it compounds terribly. But his hand remains busy at work, stroking over his hip. For the most part, Mettaton's hands remained between his side and his hip this whole time, fascinating himself anywhere between his waist and his hip with pets or presses of fingers and the way Emet-Selch's body always feels so soft to the touch. It's soothing, and he can tell the smaller man feels similarly as he settles in place.

He hums, quietly setting his device on the bed by his side while he focuses on his lover for the time. Emet-Selch, he knew, would be more skeptical of what's possible for these people, but even posing the question of how to start strikes Mettaton as possessing a bit of optimism. He smiles.]

Money makes things happen, darling. You know that. [Pay experts to focus on this subject that should matter! And whatever else is needed, it's for the sake of research, which is not Mettaton's forte.] And whether they view us as miracle or blight, that should motivate them to understand better how we get here, why, and how to customize our fate.

[Emet-Selch sees only the merit in using potential research to use, and to use it to manipulate their stay here. To have some measure of control over something otherwise uncontrollable. And Mettaton would be lying if he claimed he wasn't also very focused on this possibility—entertaining it, at least. He wanted terribly to stay by Emet-Selch's side, no matter how much is hurt that Mikasa's no longer here. She would've wanted to leave if she had control, after all. Emet-Selch was right about that.

(He wonders if Eren would've stayed, knowing his own fate and knowing he had the potential for change here.)

Though he longs to better understand the fate of his friend... Mettaton focuses anew on starting such an endeavor. He hums, glancing around the pleasantly-lit room.]

I don't know where to start... Maybe it's some kind of magic a Witch could harness that is beyond the Coven's understanding. That's all I have to start with! [He was having a conversation with one HOTARU☆KUN earlier, a Mirrorbound who wanted to return home, who wondered as much. But Mettaton has a different hunch of his own.] But we find that our dreams herald new arrivals, right? Studying dreams couldn't be too hard!

[The harder part was to get the Mirrorbound to agree to such things, at that... But with the proper incentive (going home/staying), Mettaton's sure people will be more willing.]

[With the followup to a kiss denied, the desire for one only increased. Emet-Selch could feel as much, as it was a feeling he shared with him. But restraint continues with it, as he resists the impulse to make good on that desire, permitting it instead to simmer, to linger, to remain. It wasn't as though it would fade- not between them. Especially not when they were already so close, cuddled up together, petting and nestling.

But there was also the topic to think upon. Money did accomplish a lot. It provided motivation, for those who would otherwise not care. Humans were like that, petty and simple... but so long as a compensation was available, it was at least an easy way to get them moving in the right direction. But whether it was a direction that could bear fruit- that had yet to be tested. Though with Mirrorbound, at least, the motivation of being able to go home or stay persistently- it would surely be a choice most would want to have.

So he acknowledges the motivation with a nod- also more of a nuzzle, as he tilts his head up more to try to bury it at Mettaton's neck. It strained his bitten throat a little but he didn't care. Twisting his body around a bit more as well, as though to face him better, his reply is muttered against his body, eyes closed, a sigh in his tone.]

If this magic exists, I would prefer the Coven to not have control over it. Nor for it to fall into the purveyance of anyone other than ourselves. You know that some faction that despised us would use it to rid this star of us, if they could.

[It's not difficult for his thoughts to turn towards how this hypothetical magic could be used against them. The Rathmores had wanted them gone, and had tortured them for the crime of existing. Others would surely take the more 'benevolent' option of sending everyone home. Still--]

--A concern for another day. It's hard to guess what price this magic would require of us.

[Of course, there were more extravagant hopes, beyond the 'simple' task of choosing whether to stay or leave. Like the ability to travel through different mirrors. Or the power to pull someone back from a mirror, should they depart regardless. There was a lot that sounded appealing, and nothing yet understood. How did their mirrors even come to exist, and why?

Mettaton's suggestion gets a thoughtful sound, quiet against his neck.]

We were even able to visit the mirrors of others, in dreams.... [Which did imply there was some manner of connection there. And though it had only been for brief periods, and only to past memory- it had even allowed others to use those mirrors. Whether you wanted them to or not. It probably didn't count as a true travelling to the owner's world, but what exactly was the connection, between mirror, self, dream, memory...?] It's a place to start, perhaps. With newcomers dreaming of this place before a true arrival here- there's some link there, in any case.

[Pleasant tension's in the air: they both want more kisses. They're both also trying to discuss matters related to their fate—the fate of Mirrorbound, really. Mettaton can nearly feel the emptiness in Emet-Selch from having lost Mikasa as a Bond, but it's hard to tell if he's not projecting... Even so, it's prominent and it scarcely leaves his mind. Seeing her house desolate, Tater the only thing there to greet him (along with her strange robotic... cat??), is still leaving its mark in his mind. And when he thinks about what could have been, if they were able to have any agency over whether they came and went... Maybe then, Mikasa could have at least had a say. Eren, too.

The Bonded couple entertain those possibilities unknown. If they had connections to other people's memories or worlds in dreams, what other potentials exist out there for them as Mirrorbound? There was a lot unknown, and when Emet-Selch says that it's a concern for another day, Mettaton gives him a hard nod. There's too much to consider that remains unknown and only entertained, and though Mettaton's a big dreamer, he knows they'd be mere hypotheticals. They could do this all day. (Not that Mettaton would mind; he frequently entertains the positive, wanted outcomes.

And the chance to use their mirrors as portals of sorts, where they could come and go and bring others along... That would be a dream. It even brings him to smile.)

He strokes his hip and pats it reassuringly.]

I know there could be those who wish to control our fates for us. But if we want any control at all... I thin it's a risk worth taking, and protecting.

[People like the Rathmores, or those aristocrats who remain though were secretly allied with the prestigious family, would use it to send them home. That's what they wanted, he remembers, and the haunts of a conversation with Emet-Selch in a dingy stone cell echoes in his head. They wanted them gone; they were a financial burden, he remembers mentioning. (And Mettaton remembers still that when he slept in front of Emet-Selch that time, he dreamt of Mikasa...)

Mettaton sighs. With both of his arms unoccupied by watches or the like, he takes to wrapping long, bendy limbs around his Bonded's frame, pulling him in and trying to aid in his adjusting. He even tilts his head down somewhat to help Emet-Selch reach his neck.

He likes him there. He likes him here, by his side. If the city could find anything out about the nature of their stay here... he hopes it's favorable, but Mettaton has no idea what they'll find. That was the excitement of the risk, wasn't it?]

It's only a start, this motion. One I'm shocked hasn't happened yet. I'm not much for research... That's more of Alphys' thing, haha. [He sighs, thinking about... Alphys' research efforts, which are just unsettling—but Mettaton regards them with more of a distant awe.] I hope we're not met with unfortunate results... But it's worth a try.

[Feeling Emet-Selch speaking against his neck has the Puca's voice softening in answer, ans he closes his eye, feeling Emet-Selch so close and dear. As he turns slightly, so too does Mettaton's grip, and his next squeeze is more toward the back of his hip this time. He hums.]

[There was a hollow where his missing Bond should have been, but in comparison to the outright agony he'd had from the feeling of his remaining Bonds being in tatters, it- well it wasn't a good feeling. It was dull, and it ached, but it had been drowned out to start, and now was gradually fading as his remaining Bonds filled the gaps. It was just one more discomfort, but as when K'rihnn had vanished, staying close like this helped, encouraged it to settle. It would take time, but healing tended to.

Apart from himself, Emet-Selch was fairly certain that Mikasa had been the person Mettaton was closest to that he would only be able to meet here, and he disliked immensely the thought of his lover losing anyone important to him. And he thought it was hardly coincidence that the puca would have become suddenly set on this course of finding out more about the Mirrorbound on learning of her disappearance. No doubt he was worried over her, considering the world she was returned to... and wouldn't it be something to be able to use the mirrors to learn how she was doing?

Really, there were any number of reasons to want to have control over the mirror-magic.]

Should there be anything to discover- I agree. It's worth the risk.

[To have something to protect, rather than be left to the whims of chance, or some pattern indiscernible. To be- not entirely secure, perhaps, but to have a safety that could be influenced, that in itself would be a comfort.

Arms wrap around him, and that was the only comfort they could have now, in this place. Something that could be easily taken away from them without warning, with no input on anyone's part. It had never been a comfortable thought, and it was even less of one these days, a fear that would be slowest of all to heal. But the holding by robotic arms- he would take that, for as long as he could. And it was good, that enough strength had returned in order to feel it. It hadn't been that long ago where even lifting a hand took concerted effort.

Though his own arm can't quite wrap around him, he does rest a hand at Mettaton's side, fingers petting over it, as his head more easily settles against the puca's neck. It was good to be able to breathe him in again, and have it smell of Mettaton, and not the scent of old blood, or dead fur. And it was a reassuring place to burrow, so he stays here, with a soft noise to the puca's throat, which he also applies a press of lips to.]

Will any result be more unfortunate than what we already have? Even if the result is only a furthering of the unknown, it's no different from what we have now. [A heavier breath.] --No, I'm certain there is. There's always a worse.

[In retrospect it was a surprise that no one had tried to study more on them than this. There had been general inquiries of course, questions asked to Covens or dragons, to cities separated, but no one had known anything about it, and there the investigation had ended. And for everyone there were distractions- just learning to survive in the city at all, monsters with all the changes that they went through, and witches with their magic. Just finding one's feet took time, and it was an effort disrupted by one disaster or another. By the time there was space to breathe, to be curious- many had already left.]

[It felt nice to lean down into Emet-Selch, to hold onto him and to breathe him in. Where Emet-Selch pushes his face into Mettaton's neck, Mettaton returns the gesture by pressing his nose against the back of his Bonded's neck. Touch is a comfort he can't begin to fathom a life without. He feels distinctly the fresh insult of having no sensation to speak of, and to soothe himself, he runs his fingertips along Emet-Selch's sides just to experience the ticklish touch of skin against them. It was a reassurance of sorts. Arms tighten; Mettaton doesn't want to let him go.

Because he's thinking about Mikasa leaving for sure. But when he thinks about that, he also thinks about Emet-Selch leaving again, no matter how much he pushes these thoughts away or compartmentalizes them. It hurts; he doesn't want it to. He knows Mikasa's in a place she wants to be, where her duty beckons. But what would be left after all of that? If he could just watch her, the rapt audience behind a TV screen to watch her life unfold, he felt he could at least know if she was okay or not. (And then what? Well obviously,he'd react accordingly. He just craved the knowledge that she was secure.)

And in front of Emet-Selch, he doesn't have to build himself up or put on a strong face. He sighs, nuzzling into his neck.

It's worth the risk because this was they were already at the bottom, with nothing to lose. But could it get worse than this? Emet-Selch's certain, and Mettaton huffs, a flareup of combative energy blooming within him without cause. He wants to assert that there is no worse than this, but could there be? So instead, he huffs again and kisses the Ascian's neck.]

If there's anything worse awaiting us, we'll still protect what we have. I trust in that. [With brittle strength, Mettaton tightens his grip about his fiancé. It's not very tight.] Don't be so glum, gorgeous. I think we have promise waiting for us.

[It didn't help much to theorize, even though Mettaton entertained the wilder, nicer outcomes. The ability to hop from world to world... He wonders if he could visit the lands Emet-Selch came from, or if all he'd get was the underworld waiting for him. And he wonders how Emet-Selch would view a modernized humanity, no longer brandishing their blades at the slightest sight of a monster and opting instead to live in harmony with them. To be able to even visit felt a dream, and he sighs wistfully.

Vaguely, it has him marveling on a few things. How difficult it was to kill an Ascian, to start; how he owned a piece of Emet-Selch's soul, trapped in amethyst crystal. How death felt so impossible to him, but he'd lived through it somehow... And he finds himself thinking again on encountering his Ascian fiancé, the two of them possessing of their natural powers. The way Mettaton felt so sure he could take Emet-Selch's adamant soul for himself, and the way he could so easily have his weakness taken advantage of. He nearly thinks of the mysterious monster he spoke to on the network, and what a bizarre tale it was, to hear of the prince who had died. That was just impossible to consider.

But upon revival, he'd thought the same thing. He shouldn't be alive, but he is, and he's grateful for it. But if they ever found themselves in fantastical circumstances, hopping worlds or changing forms, shapes, powers anew... Mettaton squeezes Emet-Selch, pecking him with a kiss.]

Hades... I've seen you, in your memories, restore a miqo'te from nothing. From her soul to her body, and even her clothes. [And he begins to wonder if that's his strong connection to death at play, as Emet-Selch... It's an incredible thought.] Is that anything like the necromancy they practice here, you think?

[Not that he'd know from experience. Emet-Selch hasn't yanked himself out of the lifestream like that. Mettaton clutches him close, but asks him questions all the same.]

[It felt like a slightly teasing touch, the fingertips against his sides, and he shivers just a little at it, along with the press of a nose to the back of his neck. In the days that had followed their revival, there had been little chance of them separating, and no desire to, with constant contact being their sole consolation. Apart from Mettaton having recently run off in search of Mikasa and to apparently submit notions to parliament, there had been touch, and there had been sleep while touching.

Emet-Selch could feel Mettaton's concern, his worry for his vanished friend (even if their Bond wasn't where it should be, it was still significantly better than it had been on either of their revivals), though he would have been able to tell of it even without their connection. Of course he would want to know if she was alright... but there was no reassurance to provide. There was only contact, company.

There was also Mettaton's sudden increase in stubborn energy, the attempt to hold him ever tighter, a fiercer kiss to his neck (all things that the Ascian was pleased by)- and his optimism. Though he does shake his head a little against him, he doesn't argue it. He thought they were both right, really: there was likely to be something even worse than what they had, but the chance of something better was worth that risk. They would protect each other in any case.

But Mettaton's line of thought and question gets a huff of breath of his own against the puca's neck.]

Considering the effort they have to go to, the preparation and ritual- I wouldn't think them at all comparable.

[It had taken him but a moment, and it hadn't been difficult- his only requirement being a place where the Underworld flowed nearest to the surface, where the souls it carried were at their most visible. Then again....

From mild offense, he turns thoughtful, nuzzling slowly at Mettaton's throat as he thinks. His lip remain stitched up, but it's a bit less sore, at least.]

--However. The miqo'te woman wasn't dead. I simply retrieved her wayward soul from the Underworld, ere she became lost to it. Through a creative- if perhaps careless use of magic- she committed her soul there, rather than face a true dissolution.

[And technically there had been no body to recreate, as that remained soulless and comatose upon the Source, he presumed. But that was mere detail; he'd easily returned her, and easily recreated her clothes. That had more to do with simple creation talents rather than his keen soul vision and manipulation, though.]

Had she been truly dead, I could not have returned her. Her soul would have continued its journey through the Underworld, to be reborn as another life.

[So if he thought about it like that, the magic practiced here was... better...? The Ascian still scoffed at the idea. That mortals should be able to restore their dead to true life was a bit of an obscenity if he thought about it. Of course, it worked out in this case, that they should be able to retrieve both his and Mettaton's souls (if with some insistence), and place them back where they belonged.]

Perhaps their afterlife is structured differently here, that souls maintain some lingering connection to their hosts for a time after death, and may be coaxed into remaining. Considering that Bonds as well aren't automatically broken... it implies that souls remain in some in-between state, before drifting forever out of reach.

[Something that easily could have happened to Mettaton's, which has his own hold on his side tighten, and his face to press harder to his throat, and his body attempt to work itself somehow closer, encouraged by the robot's own hold. Would he have been reborn eventually in this place? Emet-Selch didn't know how this world's system of rebirth worked, though he assumed it had one. Would foreign souls even function the same way? Without being able to see this world's equivalent to the Underworld, he had little opportunity to surmise. Which does lead him to another point of curiosity--]

Mettaton- how does it work on your star? Does the necromancy here have some equivalent?

[After only the slightest break, Mettaton only flew right back into place. And he was exhausted, emotionally and physically: before he could even make this post, despite having resolved to make it with immediacy (and he no doubt proclaimed to Emet-Selch that he needed to make it right away), he required rest. Developing the ability for sleep meant that the robot could rely upon it to replenish his power, but it also meant that when he needed such power, it was easy to fall prey to its influence. Like any organic being, he was quick to pass out for the sake of a fitful nap.

But they'd spent these days in constant contact. Even having parted for this important errand reminded Mettaton just how weak their Bond still was. It's better than it had been, but not as brilliant as it usually was. Both of them wanted it back, and it felt that staying close was the best medicine. It was soothing; Mettaton felt both comfortable for it, and more alive because of it. His fingers press more firmly against bare skin, claws denting flesh—but his grip's too weak for anything else.

And from there comes Emet-Selch's reply, clarifying the scene he'd seen before him. And pain tears over his skull at times, though Mettaton doesn't flinch, as his ears attempt to perform their usual emotive acrobatics but fail miserably. She wasn't dead? How could she commit her soul there? Humans were a strange lot. It sounded as though she'd just... somehow parted from her body without intention, and found herself unable to return to it. A resurrection in a fashion, but it was only because her "death" was a poor attempt at it, the imitation of it the byproduct of magic. It's a little beyond Mettaton, but he follows along the best he can.

For starters, he smiles at the fact that Emet-Selch's display was so effortless in appearance, compared to the Coven's.]

You did make it look like a practiced act, dear. But then, your magic could put this world's to shame.

[He smiles close up to his neck, and plants a lingering, soft kiss there.

Apparently, they were different things... Were he and Emet-Selch both dead and following the laws of his star, there would be no Ascian capable of restoring them. They'd be dead. Humans were... a startlingly innovative sort, and he can only regard their move to harness necromancy for the sake of reviving their people of Geardagas with awe. But Mettaton nods again when Emet-Selch compares their structures of afterlife: it seemed like souls (normally) had enough of a connection to the living world even postmortem to be returned. Whether there were rules about what could and couldn't be revived, Mettaton isn't sure. Either way, their Bond had enough threads left to remain; their souls were bound even in death, somehow. Better yet, they maintained enough connection to their hosts to be reunited, and best of all, their souls themselves remained intact.

Rebirth, of course, is all quite beyond Mettaton. Maybe humanity had some ideas about rebirth, but it made sense that monsters did not. So where Emet-Selch's world had laws that made it so that true death could not be reversed, that souls would be reborn into new entities, Geardagas had its own set of rules, too. Upon being prompted for information, Mettaton tilts his head against Emet-Selch's neck before sliding down to his shoulder in thought, humming, struggling for some... comparison.

He can only shake his head no.]

If the humans have necromancy, or even an equivalent... I don't know about it. Defibrillators, to restart the heart?? But that's medicine. Haha. [And Mettaton's not very knowledgeable about medicine. May as well be necromancy, it makes the heart pump blood again. Blood, very important.] Humans aren't very magical at all. They have technology!

Monsters... We also don't have necromancy. Though, Alphys. [He sighs. This is something he doesn't even entirely understand, but he proceeds, drawing away from Emet-Selch's shoulder to press his cheek against the side of his fiancé's head. One of his hands skirts up the Ascian's back to rest upon his neck, warm and gentle.] I think she's gotten the closest to it... if the qualifiers for necromancy are to defeat untimely death with prolonged existence. But it wasn't without harrowing results.

[He smiles softly, thinking about how different souls and afterlives and undeath are among worlds. It complicates matters; it's pretty amazing, to him.]

I don't think I've told you about what happens to us upon death, have I? [Here, he draws back just enough to press his cheek to the side of Emet-Selch's head, though he permits the Ascian to remain against his neck.]

Edited (triggerhappy fingers click post instead of preview when icon not chosen) 2021-02-28 20:46 (UTC)

[Emet-Selch hadn't been entirely happy about Mettaton running off as he had, mostly because he hadn't relished the loss of contact, but also because he knew the puca wasn't in any sort of shape to be doing this. Even if he hadn't been revived from a half-eaten state, and even if a robotic form didn't have, perhaps, the same weaknesses of an organic one- he'd still been ravaged by the cwyld, he'd still been killed- and that meant he shouldn't be leaving the hospital. There had been no chance of the Ascian accompanying him either.

But he knew that Mettaton needed to do this, so he hadn't said much about it, had only tried to rest (even more fitfully, unsuccessfully; it was probably no surprise that by the time the puca had returned, it had only been then that he'd been able to settle into a deeper sleep). It hadn't worked, and he'd ended up trying to distract himself with the watch until Mettaton was back- and once he had returned, they'd both slept, even if the robot had roused far sooner than himself. A need to rest and a need to post... the former could only win out for so long.

That his explanation for what had happened to Y'shtola was somewhat insufficient, working on knowledge that he considered straightforward, but which assumed a background that Mettaton didn't have... Emet-Selch doesn't entirely realize. And with his face smushed against the puca's neck, he misses the activity of ears, assuming from his response that Mettaton understood exactly what he meant. It's a response to satisfy him, at least; his native magic was worth praise, and the Ascian hums an assent, both to his words, and to the slow kiss provided to his neck.

But then Mettaton goes into what he knows of his own world's resurrective arts. That the humans wouldn't have any- that was to be expected, considering that humans in that world couldn't use magic. This... 'defibrillator', whatever that was, was just a medical tool from his description, that he presumed had more to do with the preservation of life than the restoring of it. There was more to existing than the mechanical functioning of the heart, after all.

Monsters, though. That was the part Emet-Selch was most interested in, and he listens closely, even as he relaxes into the gentle touch to his neck, tilting his own head up enough to lean his cheek back to his. It felt good, to press to metal and silicone, without it bearing the stain of blood. And though he's about to ask what those 'harrowing results' entailed (A revival that wasn't quite successful? The creation instead of some manner of undead, perhaps... there was a reason why true resurrection wasn't something he was sure ought to exist.), the witch becomes distracted instead by Mettaton's (somewhat rhetorical) question at the end.

With their cheeks pressed together, it's not much of a headshake- and something that Emet-Selch more deliberately turns into a slow nuzzle while he's there, eyes still closed. The puca already knew the answer to that.]

You haven't. You mentioned finding the idea of my manner of afterlife to be dull, considering how quiet and solitary it is. [It almost gets a smile, but not quite; the memory of his own return to his mirror was- despite how ultimately pleasant the night had gone for them- the start of that realization that they really could be taken from one another at any time. A fear that had perhaps culminated in all of this, without being erased.... But he remembered Mettaton's disapproval at his description of the Underworld with a note of fondness.] Does yours not permit you consciousness...? 'Tis a normal result, even on my star... my connection to the Underworld was exceptional.

[Still completely under the assumption that there was an afterlife. How couldn't there be? Where else would all those souls go?]

[It's the sort of explanation that would click in time, given more rumination. And Mettaton does think about it some more. He can liken it somewhat to the state Aefenglom seems to render freshly-dead souls, if he thinks about it... They were different rule sets. If somebody died in Emet-Selch's world, that was death. It was a done deal. But in Y'shtola's case, she wasn't quite yet dead. For someone like Emet-Selch, he could feasibly reach for that soul and restore it to the land of the living... But given Emet-Selch's phrasing, he imagines that leaving her there would mean death to come.

Perhaps, though, he doesn't fully grasp it. Monsters follow different rules, after all. Those are the ones he's most familiar with.

Emet-Selch's reminder of his afterlife is bittersweet. It hurts to know he's dead back home, and it hurts even more for Mettaton to think of him as alone. A solitary, faded consciousness... It felt torturous to him. Subdued, lost to time, incapable of the excitement of new experiences—no, he'd much rather eternal life than eternal loss. Mettaton squeezes Emet-Selch with a touch more strength than he's been able to manage so far, burying his nose into his hair.

He placates himself with a kiss. It's the best he can do.]

So dull. I'd rather live vibrantly. [That's stating the obvious, and he knows Emet-Selch would see him live, too.] If I'm thinking, I ought to be moving, after all! Exceptional as you are, I'm so glad you're here...

[He can't help but slip that in, too. MTT tilts his head to press his forehead against Emet-Selch's hair in a deeper nuzzle. Emet-Selch left to the current of the Underworld and his own thoughts... versus this, versus companionship and excitement. Mettaton likes the moments he gets to see fleeting smiles or expressions of deepening comfort on the Ascian's face, the times where he could see life suffusing his being, either in the openness of his gaze or the flush of his face... He has a lot of memories to consider, and they fill him with adoration for the Ascian.

Nearly losing him that night—he wanted desperately to see those looks on his face, to see to it that he was... alive, at least here. Mettaton loses himself to some moments dedicated to memory—to bondage (he was captured, secure, here), to the vitality of blood, to the way exertion brought out heavy breath meant to suffocate. With a sigh, the Puca strokes his neck some more, attempting once again to focus on his explanation instead of an appetitous glimmer that wouldn't be fulfilled in their current states.]

I don't know what sort of afterlife the humans get. But monsters don't get one at all. If we're killed... what little physicality there is to their bodies turns to dust.

[His fingers work rhythmically over his neck, memorizing the sensation of soft skin, of short hair at the nape of his neck. He tries to imagine what it must be like for a monster to die, and pictures the sudden ceasing of consciousness, of existence altogether. Only the bid for their essence to remain somewhere in the world remains, the plea of the living.]

When humans die... you can see their souls, right? Even as they depart from their spent bodies, their souls continue to exist. But us... our souls are destroyed upon death. We have no myths of rebirth, or afterlife... because there's no soul left behind.

That's, well. Another reason we couldn't use each other's souls to break the barrier. Once we're dead, we're gone. There's nothing there to take.

[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.]

[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.

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.]

[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.]

And I also came back. We're alive now, my darling.

[Mettaton gives the side of his head another kiss, willing himself to hold Emet-Selch secure and tight against him. Curses, if only he hadn't done so much exhausting running around today... He's not low on air or weak of muscle, but his body feels leaden to his very soul, which is a feeling he's never quite had before. And that feeling of post-death, post-revival, feels like a bad topic to mention, to explain how fragile his very soul feels when he wants to be so strong for Emet-Selch...

But Mettaton also knows well that Emet-Selch would be able to feel him. He could feel him, and day by day, their Bond repairs. Their hearts ease, even when they're hurt again by something like this.

But at the end of the day, he's right to be distraught, isn't he? Mettaton's shoulders droop, his unseen expression, though buried in hair, downcast. Humans didn't seem upset by the nature of their souls; they were harmless when understood, that much is true. He always tried to break down for Emet-Selch that monsters are harmless despite their potentials. But... it was almost sad, how harmless they really are. Compared to a soul like Emet-Selch's, robust and everlasting (though he knew some of its traits came from being an Ascian rather than just an Amaurotine), his own soul would be a pitiful thing. There was no reassurance to be had there.

He still tries to find one. I'll be careful. I won't leave you. You'll stay by my side. Here, I don't die like that. All of these were either still hopes rather than predetermined, and others... were obvious. He doesn't die like that, but he had died, and that was unsettling. It was unsettling, too, that Emet-Selch had died.

They'd both try to protect each other while they were here, but he knew Emet-Selch would think about the possibility of them being apart, and fret about that. No, in the end, this was... maybe worth his alarm, and something inconsolable. He couldn't even apologize for being this way. And even in the end, his body could only protect him so far. Yet somehow... Mettaton had never feared death. Even now, it felt like a bad dream...

But Emet-Selch had died in his homeworld, too. Against the odds, he'd been killed. An adamant soul like his own, captured and shattered by the Warrior of Light. No matter the texture of the soul, the tenacity, the longevity... was there any assurance of survival? But Mettaton doesn't mention Emet-Selch's death: it's only a consideration that Emet-Selch would care so much about his continued survival, should they part. He sighs shakily. His tight grip shifts, and he moves one of them to his lover's upper back to rub him in warm, broad circles.]

I remember once, you asked what the cost was for our potential powers. I suppose this is one of them.

[A being who could take souls, could achieve exponential power dependent on them—they had to be balanced somehow. He'd already mentioned that it took souls at all, and that required death. That required people other than monsters.]

...We tried to overcome the immediate loss of our souls, upon death. Alphys figured out what differentiates our souls, from the souls of humans. Souls that last. She reproduced the compound, and tried to apply it to monsters who had 'fallen down'. It didn't work as desired, even though her patients did overcome death. They, ah... fused together. I've met some of them. ...Many of them, since each one of them is upwards of three monsters?

[He shakes his head. ...He was trying to explain that earlier, but he knows it's not anything reassuring. There wasn't much of a way to reassure. This is just what he is, this is just the sort of soul he has. It was lacking in character, in color; it couldn't last outside of this body, now that he's corporealized with it.

His hand follows Emet-Selch's shoulder down his arm, and his fingers and thumb rest around his witch's forearm. He strokes with his thumb, still downcast, still biting his lip, contemplative.]

I've never been afraid of dying before. Though... a lonely, unexciting afterlife. Do you think it really suits me, Hades? [And he smiles, planting a kiss against Emet-Selch's scalp again.] I'll just have to live instead. I told you I would.

[He'd made that promise twice already. Once when Emet-Selch had returned from his death at the hands of the Warrior of Light, and once again when they'd woken from death anew, grasping desperately for each other.

Where Emet-Selch is uncertain about taking that core from his body, the idol joins his hand with his own, the one that followed the length of his arm. Wrapping his hand around Emet-Selch's, around his own core, he pulls if out of his body gently, keeping their hands together before leaning down to kiss just behind Emet-Selch's ear.]

You tried, dearest. And we said we'd do better. My trust in you hasn't wavered at all.

[Though the hold was surprisingly firm, and for all that it couldn't ease him, Emet-Selch appreciated it- he could tell that Mettaton's soul wasn't all that it should be. That there was a weakness there that hadn't been when they were well, and even with their Bond in its reduced state it was clear to him. Even without the Bond, he would've been able to guess at it, considering how fragile he felt himself, as though his soul was still knitting back into place in this organic body. It would've been easy to assume that Mettaton was likely experiencing something similar, that even if he lacked muscles and organs, breath or pulse- that his soul was just... not at its best. Especially since he'd strained himself by running off for a time....

Which was more cause for concern, knowing what he knew now, even if the Ascian understood it was something of an irrational fear. They already had proof that Mettaton's soul could persist in this world, that it could be drawn back, and placed into his robotic shell. Dying didn't have to be absolute, and they were both dedicated to not dying again. But it hurt; as he huddled against the puca's body, shivering in his grip, it was all he could think of, this new variation of fear.

It wasn't as though he could blame Mettaton for his nature, or for monsters having this trait as a rule. And even if he had been sturdier in soul- Emet-Selch knew that was no guarantee for safety, for survival, or even rebirth (the Ascian understood that his own soul wouldn't be passed on, that it would persist only in the Underworld for as long as it did). But it felt terrible in a way intrinsic to him; souls were meant to persist.

There really was no consolation. Not for this, not for them. Even if monsters were capable of claims to godhood, that all of this should be the price they pay- it felt unfair, too much. What use was that power, should it be so impossible to use? The only way they could claim a soul was voluntarily.

With no way of changing this fate, there was no way of making it any better, and he felt cold even as the robot began to stroke over his upper back. Was there anything between them that didn't have the air of tragedy to it? As he dwelled on that sense of hopelessness, Emet-Selch couldn't think of any. And when Mettaton describes the results of Alphys' research--]

--How grotesque. [That wasn't reassuring at all, either, that the possible best fate for Mettaton upon death, was some... spectre of survival, made into an unfortunate chimera. But if he tried to not imagine his lover in such a state, it was- a research that had potential, wasn't it? If there was a better way of isolating the subjects, or providing them with enough magic to sustain their original shape... as he wondered if that had something to do with the merging. If monsters were made of magic, and death was a dissipation of that magic- restoring what sliver that might remain had to have a consequence somewhere. To sustain themselves, the souls had combined...

It's not a thought that can distract him for long. It wasn't as though it was a technique that could be refined here.] As though you needed more reasons to live.

[None of it would suit him, not turning into some (likely unglamourous) coalition of souls, and not a solitary, silent afterlife. So he has to agree, though soft, softer yet at the feeling of a kiss in his hair.]

...It wouldn't suit you. But nothing at all--

[He hated it, every part of it. If only they had their native powers, even if that would mean Mettaton having the weakness of his native soul- but it wouldn't matter, because Mettaton could take his, and gain that unfathomable power. It wasn't as though such a merging would kill him, able to persist without a body as he was, in his natural state. Couldn't Mettaton use that godlike state to infuse monster souls with greater durability? ...Or at the very least, Emet-Selch be able to look after his soul more directly, shielded by the mass of his own.

Mettaton guides his core out of his body, and Emet-Selch's hand comes with it, fingers wrapped around as firmly as they could be, even if he couldn't support it on his own with any degree of security.]

Of course we'll try. We'll do better, yet- will we survive long enough for it to make a difference?

[Mettaton can nearly track the current of his lover's stormy head, the way he tries desperately to come up with solutions for Mettaton's condition of being. From expansion upon Alphys' groundwork rooted in science (and though MTT's never considered it, what would happen to someone like him, blessed with a physical body as he is anyway? there's less to bleed through, no chance for his physicality to falter) to even the use of their native powers, of course Emet-Selch would do anything. In fact, Mettaton wonders if he'd really, truly stop at nothing, no matter the method.

It's just the sort of man he's proven himself to be. He's extreme; he's unrelenting and stubborn. He's enchanting. Mettaton remembers only vaguely by now that Emet-Selch hardly flinched at all while being even consumed by him, because it was for Mettaton's sake... The Puca pulls Emet-Selch even closer, softened by this notion as he nuzzles him with his cheek pressed to the side of his fiancé's head. No doubt, Emet-Selch's running through the possibilities, ones not even Mettaton thinks to consider. Their hands are together, wrapped around his core; Mettaton's thumb strokes over the side of Emet-Selch's hand, bringing it close to his lover's body.

What could he do with Emet-Selch's soul? Could he guarantee them a life that would last forever together? Could he let them escape this world, hand in hand? Undoubtedly he would do just as he said he would, so many months ago; with Emet-Selch blended with his heart, their wills would be united. They would manage whatever they could do together, and it would be idea after idea, pursuit after pursuit, all of the little things in the world people normally couldn't tamper with. They could stop the world, they could start it anew... Mettaton doesn't know the extent of what would be possible, but when he holds his Witch in place like this—fusing together with him felt like the next step.

Togetherness with him always felt like the next step, even when maddened, it seemed. It felt instinctive; it felt safe. Mettaton sighs. He knows Emet-Selch dislikes this news more than even he does... It would affect him more than it would ever affect Mettaton, after all.]

We'll just have to try. [He smiles weakly against him. They've already been saying they'll try, so this ends up being a repeat of that sentiment.] We'll fight for our life together. Won't we? I think we'll survive plenty.

[Emet-Selch is stubborn. So is Mettaton. They'd resist with all they had. Mettaton, too, couldn't simply give in if ever he caught his lover in a situation where he felt sure he was going to lose him. No... it took changing his mindset: Mettaton would not lose his Bonded mate. Nothing would take him. Not his mirror, not his death, not death here, and not anything else.

Even if this was wishful thinking, Mettaton knew that the best chance they had was to protect themselves and to protect each other. To possess one another, and to feel that it's their right to be together. The possibilities seemed grim, but he had to believe there would be some kind of solution that existed out there for them. Whether that was the tenacity of souls, or their continued life, the requirement was that they be together.

(Distantly, Mettaton wonders if Emet-Selch's lifespan has been shortened in Aefenglom. It was more reason to escape it. He doesn't much like the thought of losing him either.) He smiles against Emet-Selch's temple again, and presses a kiss right there, soft and sweet.]

Neither of us can tell the future. Not clearly. But... You know me. If I ever feel something terrible coming, I'll always tell you.

[A lot of good it did them during the month. Mettaton knew something bad was coming; he didn't know the terror was himself, infected by the Cwyld. He makes a note to objectively tell Emet-Selch his feeling rather than trying to decode it right away. So far, any time he had a bad feeling, something bad did indeed follow, after all. But bad things also happened even when he didn't have a bad feeling.

Mettaton collects Emet-Selch close. He keeps his core near Emet-Selch, holding it with him so that he can help his fingers hold the warm, weighty container there, nice and secure. Even were he to drop it, it would land on their laps. No matter how brittle his soul felt, how heavy his body in comparison, he won't relent. He won't give up if it meant he'd relinquish his hold on his rattled, weakened Bondmate.]

Let's start with what we have right now, dear. Let's start with our recovery. We have a lot of it yet to do.

[That Mettaton could predict and understand his thoughts with such accuracy- Emet-Selch would both expect it of him by now, and love him for it in the same breath. Of course his fiancé should know he operates- but it was also something that he knew he couldn't take for granted, that was worth appreciation.

And the Ascian did wonder if Mettaton- being a monster with a physical body, if an inorganic one- would stand up better to being revived. But it sounded as though there was something wrong with the condition of those subjects, and would having a concrete form to inhabit be enough to counter it? Or would he only die again, his soul unable to bolster itself by fusing to others? If they ever found themselves together on Mettaton's world, it would be something to test, and on subjects that weren't his lover.

But then, so much might be bypassed if they could fuse. What powers would they unlock together, and what intimacies? From making monster souls robust (or at least, Mettaton's), to passing between worlds as they wished, where did the limits lie? Could they save Amaurot, as Mettaton had suggested nearly a year ago? Emet-Selch would have been willing to take that chance then, if it had somehow been available- and that was before he'd known him anywhere as near as this, even if he had begun to be attached to him. To love him.

(Yet how wonderful it would be now, just for the sake of it. Would anything less than being able to merge souls whenever they liked satisfy their need to be together?)

For the moment there was trying. There was doing better. There was surviving. There was taking proper advantage of what few boons they had, like Mettaton's sense for danger. Emet-Selch nods against his face, taking a steadying breath, feeling the softness of lips against him. Feeling as well his fiancé's own stubbornness, his unwillingness to let go, reflected in the grip he took on him- it touched him. They were both shaky still- how could they not be?- but already Mettaton was trying so hard for him. And gradually it helped.

Even though Emet-Selch had also occasionally considered that even if, against all odds, he remained on this star permanently... his host would age, wouldn't it? It would grow older, and eventually it would die. There was nothing a necromancer could do for that, and without his ability to take another body, that would be it. He knew from prior experience how many years this form would last, and that he was at roughly its halfway point (unless all these misadventures had shaved away some portion of that... he couldn't be sure). While he might remain strong and healthy for years to come, even that vitality would fade.

Without his powers, remaining on this star wasn't a solution either, if they wanted to stay together for longer than a portion of a mortal life. And of course they would- what amount of time would be enough for them? It was the same as with closeness, that they would always seek out more of it.

It was a problem the Ascian didn't know what to make of, that felt even more hopeless to avoid. Even if a way to attach to this world was discovered, it would ultimately only delay their separation for a handful of decades. Mettaton could endure indefinitely, so long as he was repaired, and that no one killed him (but that was always a risk, and one that worried him more now, terribly so), but Emet-Selch could not. Without his power to change hosts... what good would that research do?

It would grant more time to find a better solution, that was all. Would his abilities return if they travelled to Mettaton's star? The puca's presumably would, so it was possible.... But would memory persist? Would their Bond, somehow, make the journey with them? The idea of losing it was anathema, and his hand twitches around the robot's heated core. Emet-Selch wondered too, how much he would sacrifice, if it meant he could keep feeling his lover's soul against his. This ease to his loneliness... it was worth giving up a great deal.

There were so many unknowns. So many uncertainties, with nearly every conceivable path, from the likely to the improbable- resulting in their separation. It was a heaviness of fate that pulled him down, that choked him with it, even as his grip on his Bonded tightens, as he shifts ever closer, tilting his head to press a kiss to Mettaton's jaw, his cheek, firm presses that lead to the corner of his lips.

It was hopeless, but he hadn't given up before, even when faced with the impossible task of restoring a world shattered. His mind had eventually been changed, and he'd been rendered unable to proceed regardless, but- he hadn't given up.

(Where was the boundary between stubborn determination and a refusal to face their fate? Perhaps there was no boundary at all, nothing so tidy and well-defined. Emotions didn't work like that, and neither did they. They had to be resolute to the point of obsession- to protect their beloved, to ensure their mutual survival. But there had to be realism too, to know how to surpass the trials their union was faced with, even if they involved the likelihood of parting.

--But they would fight it. But was fighting just another shade of denial?)

Their hands held Mettaton's soul container, and with as close as they were Emet-Selch could feel it warming his chest as well as his hand. The soul inside it was brittle, delicate, and dearly treasured. He would protect it; they both would. Just as they would protect every other part of the other's lives and forms.]

A recovery longer than we have time for... but we'll do what we can.

[There was damage more than to skin or soul, but the memory of things neither of them would be able to forget. But they would live with that too.]

[It's not better, but Emet-Selch gradually calms from outright disturbance to something heavy, grieving for something he hasn't yet lost. ...Mettaton couldn't exactly blame him for anticipating the full of this loss, either. He presses his lips together tightly, but relaxes somewhat at the feeling of his fiancé's lips against his jaw, his cheek. Then, the corner of his lips. His Witch settles against him some more, and they hold Mettaton's soul close to his chest.

With a soft gaze, Mettaton drinks in this sight. Emet-Selch holds the glowing core to his bandaged chest, and Mettaton helps him keep his grip; his lover's right hand is weak, after all. This is an offering of himself for his lover to keep through strength and weakness both, something to protect, but something to protect him in return. Mettaton would safeguard him from anything he could; he'd also protect his heart from the ache of loneliness he knew bruised him over the years. Despite his injury, Mettaton thought he looked beautiful, lit by the soft ambiance of his own core in the dimming, warm light of the room.

He looked more beautiful than anything because he was precisely who he was, though. And even though this was a topic to unsettle, he looked lovely even then. Even without the sight for souls, it always felt he could see Emet-Selch's. Mettaton smiles gently.]

We will. So... let's see if we can race toward getting better. Right?

[A playful lilt decorates his tone. It's the same sort of challenging demeanor he might take to strike a bet, but subdued, sweet, laced together with the simple wish that Emet-Selch heal quickly. He tilts his head enough to return that kiss against the corner of his lips—only Mettaton captures Emet-Selch's lips in a full, amorous kiss.

The flare-up of want from his end is unfathomable. They'd been desiring this kiss before, even as they started discussing Mettaton's trip into Aefenglom, from Mikasa's house in the Haven, to Parliament, then back directly to the Coven. How could Mettaton do anything but make good on such deepening want? Tender but full, he kisses Emet-Selch; he tastes him, no longer the flavor of blood or anything that made the Puca think of things too dark, too unsettling. And he doesn't deepen it; he flirts with the taste of his mouth with a swipe of tongue and a low, relieved hum, pleasured at the sensation of Emet-Selch's stitched lip against his own silicone ones. That he was injured at all wouldn't stop either of them from their kisses, but the Puca's sure to be gentle with Emet-Selch.

When he draws back, he keeps his face close. Mettaton regards Emet-Selch with softness that doesn't diminish. From here, his very soul begins to relax, to covet more rest, and Mettaton leans back, guiding Emet-Selch with him.]

Relax with me, dear. You're so good at it, that you make it even easier for me to find rest. [A pause, as Mettaton searches for words with a smile. Really, he didn't think he'd be able to sleep if he didn't have Emet-Selch's soul tucked up against his own. They're... inseparable. Mettaton could almost laugh at how combined he is with his Bondmate already.] We'll just have to make the most of our recovery together.

[Their recovery wouldn't be settled after physical wounds recovered, that was true. In fact, Mettaton can already detect a change in himself: he's reluctant to lay atop Emet-Selch for fear that he'll be unable to get off of him. For fear that he'll be paralyzed by the memories of tearing morself after morsel of delicious tissue and swallowing it, the memory laced with the suggestion of kisses. Warm, liquid familiarity, the taste of magic on his tongue—of course he was kissing Emet-Selch, if a kiss could also be the ravenous devouring of his mate.

But he knew he adored laying atop his Bonded. The fact that Mettaton recognizes his own fear is a good step, he thought. And if it felt more unsettling because he was having such a hard time moving... he'd have to get better. He'd have to wait until his reflexes were sharp, his body agile, so that he could pull off of Emet-Selch if he found himself hurting his fiancé. His body was a wreck, after all. Mettaton doesn't want to hurt him.

So for now, he quietly pulls Emet-Selch halfway atop him instead. They're not quite laying down completely horizontal, propped up as they are, but Mettaton still has the Ascian tucked under one of his arms. Between them they hold his core close to Emet-Selch's chest, and the Puca corrals Emet-Selch ever closer so that they could touch bodily.]

[Were circumstances different, it might have been romantic. ...Perhaps it still was, in its way, as they held onto one another, their faces close, and souls doing their best to be even closer. The room was dim, but there was a warm glow between them, an explicit demonstration of trust, of love, of the willingness and intent to protect what was important to them. They were both damaged, and would be for some time; they were both healing, and would be for even longer. It was a romance heavy, at least from the Ascian's side of things- but it was there all the same.

With it was a kiss practically promised, and certainly longed for- and finally delivered with a turn of Mettaton's head. It's one that Emet-Selch meets as though he'd been waiting a long time for it, and though it was a need muted by weakness, it was fully in evidence. The want he could feel from the puca was unmistakable, and his own answers it, for all that the kiss remains soft, and more clearly on the adoring side of things. It was still tempting to deepen it; the running of a tongue against healing-and-intact lips was a further enticement to that end, and he has to remind himself not to push it. He knew his body couldn't handle much more than this yet, and that it didn't react well to anything approaching dizziness. And Mettaton's capabilities were similarly limited. Neither of their forms would permit much, yet.

But kisses were permitted, and even if they were not, it would take more than a recent death to keep them from them. A taste of them both that didn't include blood or meat, where nothing was being torn- it was good. It's only after Mettaton draws back from it that he's able to reply to his words, for all that he's nearly distracted by the softness of his gaze, the feelings themselves nearly enough to still him. He ends up closing his eyes just to focus at all, though the ache of his heart doesn't diminish.]

It's not something that can be hastened, [He says it with a slight sigh, a note of protest, as though he'd been tired out especially from Mettaton's competitive tone.] especially if you discover more reasons for excursions to and from the hospital. If you look too energetic, they won't let you back in.

[Though he's not even going to pretend now that he would sleep better that way, undisturbed by Mettaton's voice, should the robot wake before him (which was usually the case). From wanting, there was relaxation too, and with it, the inclination towards further sleep- so his answering hum is a soft one of approval, as the puca begins to shift them back, into more of a prone position. Not entirely so, but it was more comfortable besides, something that he knew he'd be able to fall asleep to.

How long would it take for either of them to be well enough to leave? It would have to be the both of them at once, he knew. And even once they could go home, Emet-Selch suspected he'd require more weeks after that to just sleep, but in more familiar surroundings. A number of things would need cleaned or fixed in their house, their bedroom, considering the condition they'd left it in... and he wasn't looking forward to having to look at it. At the moment, even the thought exhausted, and he pushes it aside. It would be something to deal with when he was more healed. There was nothing he could do for it now, anyway.]

I always knew my calm and soothing temperament would aid even those most disinclined to sleep.

[That is to say his dour and negative personality could weary anyone. It's said idly, even lightly though, as he leaves a briefer kiss at his lips, before resting his head back down, closer to Mettaton's neck and shoulder. Curled up partially on top of his Bonded, even if they weren't laying entirely flat, it was about as cozy a position as could be expected, with the monster's soul tucked safely between them, and a blanket around them. Even if Emet-Selch loved as well the feeling of the puca on top of him, there was something unsettling about the idea now. If he woke up that way, in the dark, unable to move- where would his thoughts turn to first?

But like this, they would manage. They were intended to be together, they were promised to each other. Consumption and death weren't enough to change that.]

If they don't let me back in, why, I'll have to riot. [Mettaton pecks Emet-Selch's cheek, putting on his most perky aura. His tail flicks, even though Emet-Selch can't see it.] And then I'll break in.

[Mettaton says this so smugly. So, so smugly. He doesn't doubt his own power to break into buildings, and he knows Emet-Selch won't doubt this threat, either. He's only broken into his house and his room many a time, whether by force or by luck. In fact, that's how he got into his room on the first time they met in private, isn't it? Mettaton has a way with invading buildings, even without teleportation.

Sighing dreamily, Mettaton snuggles up against Emet-Selch. A few nuzzles are spared to the top of his fiancé's head as they settle down as comfortably as they can manage, the overall exhaustion of being awake settling upon them heavily. He feels so unwound, so at ease, with Emet-Selch by his side, that it was hard to believe that what had transpired not even a week ago happened at all.

(They both knew it did. Even if it could be pushed aside in conscious thought, it wouldn't leave their nightmares, nor would it refrain from plaguing waking, fretful moments. They'd remain disturbed.)

Magitech lights gradually fade with the daylight they can't see, an imitation of the setting sun. And with the covers drawn up to Emet-Selch's shoulders now, it made it that much easier for the stable glow of Mettaton's core to cast lights upon Emet-Selch. Mettaton's gaze softens some more, still caught by this precious moment. He snickers, paying his Bonded another kiss in response to being so relaxing.]

So soothing... that I want to kiss you silly sometimes instead.

[Spoken low and against Emet-Selch's scalp, something like a comeback, but it's ended in another kiss, and then another dramatic sigh. Rolling his fingers against Emet-Selch's side, Mettaton sidles up nice and tight to him. For a moment, it seems as though he'll just settle there.

But there's a charge between them, as though Mettaton still has something to say. It's a continuation from his latest disturbing news for Emet-Selch, but... not quite. With a mixture of uncertainty and abashment, he guides Emet-Selch's hand to bring his core into greater view for the Ascian's examination.]

By the way... When you get your magic back. You'll fix this up, won't you?

[There was damage to Mettaton's outer body. This much is true. It's concentrated around his waist to one side, something having pierced right through his body—but in such a way and such a place that no electrical components were revealed. In fact, it would have been an overall benign strike, were it not for how lethal it ended up.

Helping to invert his core in Emet-Selch's hand, Mettaton's thumb runs over one of its smooth facets—and there it was, the lethal blow. Being sick with Cwyld and sustaining so much injury on his body could have been enough to kill him, but not quite. Instead, a crack runs along the pristine surface of the crystalline heart, and a chip of it's missing—just slight enough and just positioned discreetly enough that it wouldn't surprise him that Emet-Selch hadn't noticed.]

The chipped piece is safely at home in its chamber still. I'm all right... But I think it would be nice to have a well-structured core again. Don't you think?

[How the rules of this world work elude Mettaton completely. This is the sort of damage that killed him, and though it remains, he's somehow alive... He has no idea how this is working. Maybe his soul would never recover until this was repaired somehow, he wonders, even though he feels himself recovering day by day.

Mettaton nuzzles Emet-Selch reassuringly, hoping to calm him should this sight disturb. It wouldn't surprise him if it did: it's a startling outcome, to find his own core damaged like this. He can hardly understand what rules govern his life on this star anymore...]

[The thought of Mettaton- patchy fur, recently deceased- causing a riot to be let back into the hospital- has him attempting a snicker against his neck, though he quickly stops it, as it just made his chest hurt. But the puca sounded so smug, utterly pleased with himself in a way that he didn't have to look at him to imagine, and Emet-Selch had no trouble believing whatsoever that Mettaton would invade the hospital if he decided to. The puca was lucky and stubborn; there was no doctor, no door or window that would be able to deny him access to this room, this bed, this witch.

Mettaton nuzzles the top of his head, and the Ascian answers with a brush of lips to his neck, and a soft exhalation to follow, slowly calming again. He even smiles a little at his fiancé's stated desires towards kissing him excessively (as though excess was possible between them), and hums softly both at the kiss and the drama of his sigh. Nestled together this way, it was... nice. It was very nice, even with all of the horror that they'd experienced just behind them. Even knowing that they would continue to revisit it- it didn't change the sort of safety he felt now, wrapped up in arms and blankets, warm and not alone.

It would have been easy enough to settle down like this, as easy as settling could ever be, while sore and fatigued in more than body. But he could tell that Mettaton wasn't quite through, that there was something else he had in mind, and as he guides his weakened hand to a particular location on his core, Emet-Selch goes still again at the undeniable feeling of a crack. Of a piece being gone entirely, the edges rough. It was small, but it was broken.

His only movement is to tilt his head, open his eyes to look down upon it, on the inverted container. It yet glowed, as he could feel- further proof that his lover was, indeed, completely alive. It wasn't like when he'd found him in that room, the light completely gone from him, with nothing to warm a surface left bloodstained.

For a moment he wants to protest this careless removal of a damaged core from the glass of his waist that had... already failed to protect it (even if that was a good thing ultimately, though it was a bitter thing to think- that Mettaton being killed then had saved him, had left him in a condition resurrectable). What if his soul was only just able to persist, to cling to a casing not wholly intact? The damage didn't feel extensive... but they already had proof that this was enough to kill him.

(At least, it was enough to kill him when he was already soul-sick from the cwyld? Or would this always be lethal damage?)

Even if Mettaton claimed to be alright, and was clearly alive, even improving... it made him uneasy not only to know his soul's casing was damaged (especially in light of what he now knew of his soul's native condition), but to have it resting against his hand like this.]

Was it necessary to remove it?

[It's quiet, tone reflecting that disturb. ...He's still ultimately too unsettled to have the core denied what added protection its spot in Mettaton's body afforded it. Hand twitching, he shifts, trying to nudge it back down where it belonged, the nuzzling doing little to ease his mind or distract his thoughts. Even if the case was functional as it was, its overall integrity had to be reduced. A careless jolt at the wrong angle could deepen those cracks. And if he died again without this being repaired, would any resurrection have a chance of succeeding?]

You know I'll repair it. There was- there was no need to show me.

[Just being told would have sufficed.]

[Utterly confident in himself, Mettaton holds Emet-Selch just as resolute as ever in his choice to expose this part of himself. He keeps his hand steady and his heart stable—after all, no matter how much he searched the crevices of his mind, he just couldn't recall how this injury took place... though he now had the identity of his killer, thanks to the post he'd made.

Knowing it was Red Wine and understanding that the kill had only been intended as a mercy, then seeing the damage for himself... Mettaton doesn't understand how this was enough to do it. Was it the weapon choice? The state of his being? Was this really all it took in this world? But as a monster, he's predisposed toward one truth: Emet-Selch couldn't hurt him. Not when he was so tender, so loving. His clawed fingertips stroke over the back of his lover's hand in their joint hold while the idol shakes his head against Emet-Selch's scalp.]

Fret not, darling. I didn't produce it only to show off. It's because I trust you.

[Emet-Selch would continue to assert that he didn't protect Mettaton, he knew. But even so, Mettaton knew he tried with all his heart. He knew he would always try to protect Mettaton, and that made the whole world feel like something they could take on together. Even though they'd erred this once, he had faith that they could learn from this. Emet-Selch himself was on the right track, having wanted to do anything for Mettaton. It was just that he didn't have the sense for self-preservation. That he was too reluctant to alter Mettaton's irrational behavior if it meant losing his short-term touch.

And Mettaton understands. Emet-Selch is hurting, even after they'd tried to recover after their months of visiting their mirrors. He's stuck in that moment, and even though he swore he'd wait for his fiancé to catch up with him, Mettaton hadn't waited enough. Emet-Selch was trying to catch up, stumbling and stuttering in his attempts, but he was so caught up in those precious moments he could take just to hold onto Mettaton, to the point that enduring a bit of Cwyld was worth it. Mettaton closes his eye, nudging his nose against Emet-Selch's scalp some more and breathing him in.

When Emet-Selch tries to return it to his waist, though, Mettaton acquiesces. He eases his core back into his waist with a hum, but he's sure to do it with ease and poise rather than excess care, a demonstration that he felt it would be all right.]

I can keep it for now. But soon, my dearest. I want to see you holding it again. I like it there, against your touch.

[Handing over his core was a selfish action, too. He enjoyed seeing the light of it cast upon Emet-Selch's face and his body. Mettaton relished the way he could feel fingers in some echo of a way—that was part of his body, after all, of course he could feel, and he could feel well. Mettaton enjoyed the simple delight of seeing Emet-Selch holding his heart close, and the sensation of feeling his body against him just like that, so intimate and faithful.

He knew all along that Emet-Selch would do anything in his power to restore Mettaton's condition. It was strange to consider that his core was in such a condition at all, but he was confident that he'd be all right. It would be the first thing Emet-Selch could help him repair, using magic to seamlessly blend a shard of crystalline core back into place on a molecular level, smoothing out the cracks in the process. Emet-Selch did so much for his sake, and Mettaton turns his head to press his cheek against Emet-Selch in his adoration.

Glass slips back into place, and metal bands work to secure his core in its rightful spot, as Mettaton clutches onto Emet-Selch. Now, all he had to hold onto was Mettaton himself, and he looks forward to his Bonded taking to him in that way.]

Just know that I'm doing well. All of this can be repaired. For now, I'm dedicated to seeing you recover, Hades, darling.

[With Emet-Selch well, Mettaton would be happy. And he knew that were Emet-Selch better, were he enabled to help Mettaton, even he'd feel better just being capable of it at all. Mettaton smiles comfortably against Emet-Selch, his fingers still smoothing over skin in an attempt to help him calm once more—after knowingly disturbing him with all of this news about his vulnerabilities.

He rewards his Witch with a kiss atop his head for his trouble. Mettaton knows he gives him plenty of it. And he would continue to, for as long as he could.]

[Mettaton's reiteration of trust gets a low, bitter sort of noise from the Ascian's throat. Of course he wouldn't deliberately hurt him- that was true between them, that any application of pain or damage was towards an end that they both wished for. (Though his thoughts ever returned to those last words Mettaton had been able to give him, before language had been lost. That he would hurt him. That he loved him. ...But where was the strangeness in that, ultimately? The emotional pain love wrought- where did that fit in? In that sense, they would always be hurting one another.)

But he was trusted- to not deliberately fail to protect him, at least. But that he had failed- that much Emet-Selch couldn't forget. Claws were gentle against his hand, and he could feel Mettaton's face against his hair, but they couldn't change that. ...But that was fine. It was better to be scarred from this, so as to not forget it. (But how could he ever risk letting him go? Even to save himself, how could he? They would both do better, but if it was that straightforward, they wouldn't have died at all.)

There was a sense of relief when the core was safely out of his hand, and back within Mettaton's body. His gaze stays with it in place of his fingers, watching the outer glass shift back, listening to the clicks of metal as the soul container was secured. Only then does it feel as though he can breathe again, and his eyes close, fingers lingering against the glass at Mettaton's waist, as though he could protect it from there. The robot's statement gets a nod against his neck, as he settles closer to him again, flush to his body as if he could shield him this way too.]

Once it's repaired, I'll hold it as much as you like.

[It wasn't as though he didn't want to take that glass box. To stroke it, to keep it against his body, feeling like their souls were that little bit closer from the contact. Valuing as well the vulnerability Mettaton was showing him, by placing his life literally in his hands. The glow from it warmed, and it reached deeper than the heat it provided his body.

Beyond touching it again for the sake of repair, Emet-Selch wanted to keep it. His lover's soul was his, for all that it was permitted to remain in the robot's shell. But it unsettled to know it was damaged, and to know that Mettaton had been going about the city with a loose chip from it rattling around in there... he didn't want to think about it. The very first thing his transmutation would have to take care of was this damage. All else could wait; he trusted no one else with this access. This was his fiancé, his responsibility.

Though his arms couldn't wrap around him fully, they try. From pressing to glass, his right arm moves to drape across Mettaton, his hand- though it couldn't latch on to much of anything- clings near to his shoulder as best as it was able. It disturbed as well, how weak that grasp had gotten... but what did he expect, after having neglected it for so long? And yet he still disliked using it.

But what was there to do but try, in all of these things? It would be longer now, to settle this time, with all of this news compounded. The glass case he could repair, but there was nothing he could do about the durability of Mettaton's soul, especially not as it was upon another star entirely. All he could do was protect him here, in ways better than he had before. And to be protected, to work together towards this goal... they could do that, couldn't they? They had to.

First he had to recover physically, magically. If he could focus on that, that would- maybe that would be enough, for now. Mettaton was alive, he could be repaired. They both wanted to see the other well, and were dedicated to that outcome. A hand pets across his skin, and he could feel the tenderness of a kiss against his hair.

It still didn't soothe him, but it was a step towards it, as Emet-Selch reflexively burrows back into place, skin against familiar metal and silicone, a firm and normal place to rest.]

I'll recover. Even faster, if you don't move from this spot.

[No more fleeing the hospital until they were both ready to leave (or until Mettaton could carry him with, or the Ascian could teleport them both). If he'd known that Mettaton's very soul container had been damaged... he still wouldn't have been able to prevent him from running off in search of Mikasa, but he would have been significantly more displeased about it.]

video; un: METTATON

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)