[Gradually, Emet-Selch begins to relax. In his sort of drained, hollowed-out way, but it wasn't unpleasant. A mood that contained both melancholy and comfort was about the best he could hope for, and he nuzzles at the top of Mettaton's head in something akin to gratitude. For the experience, for his presence, for... just being.
And while the sound of his voice (which he'd come to appreciate in itself), doesn't disrupt the Ascian's mixed reverie, Mettaton's words do. And not in a positive direction.]
You can't--
[He cuts himself off with a choked noise, half-irritated, half-pained. His hackles instinctively rise. While not being lumped in with humanity was good, as Emet-Selch never appreciated being compared to them whatsoever in all their flaws (his flaws were different, and superior), the implication in Mettaton's words were... worrying. Complicated.]
And what mistaken form do you think yours takes?
[It's sharper, more testily spoken, even as his hand rubs at the base of one of Mettaton's ears. Even as he remains close, leaning still closer. But he tenses as well, in a more defensive way.
Emet-Selch didn't know what to think, as his mind refused to do more than glide around the topic. Fondness was bad enough, genuine affection remained difficult to receive or demonstrate, as soon as he became aware of what it was. As soon as thought or word was applied. This was even worse than that, and of course Mettaton would bring it up. And while he was coming to appreciate the puca's lack of constraints, this was one area that unnerved the Ascian badly.
...He'd never considered himself one to move quickly. And yet- his interests were few, but intense- and Emet-Selch knew that applied to people as well as topics. Either something or someone was worthwhile or they weren't, and no amount of waiting around would change things. It was perhaps more that his investments were progressively fewer, unwilling to risk himself on even the attempt. But once begun--
Even so. Even so, as soon as something touched him on a more personal level, and moreover that he was made aware of it, was forced to be conscious of it- then he recoiled. Anticipating pain even before it had been applied, because what else could he expect? Never mind that most of his suffering was self-inflicted. He'd never learned to cope.]
no subject
And while the sound of his voice (which he'd come to appreciate in itself), doesn't disrupt the Ascian's mixed reverie, Mettaton's words do. And not in a positive direction.]
You can't--
[He cuts himself off with a choked noise, half-irritated, half-pained. His hackles instinctively rise. While not being lumped in with humanity was good, as Emet-Selch never appreciated being compared to them whatsoever in all their flaws (his flaws were different, and superior), the implication in Mettaton's words were... worrying. Complicated.]
And what mistaken form do you think yours takes?
[It's sharper, more testily spoken, even as his hand rubs at the base of one of Mettaton's ears. Even as he remains close, leaning still closer. But he tenses as well, in a more defensive way.
Emet-Selch didn't know what to think, as his mind refused to do more than glide around the topic. Fondness was bad enough, genuine affection remained difficult to receive or demonstrate, as soon as he became aware of what it was. As soon as thought or word was applied. This was even worse than that, and of course Mettaton would bring it up. And while he was coming to appreciate the puca's lack of constraints, this was one area that unnerved the Ascian badly.
...He'd never considered himself one to move quickly. And yet- his interests were few, but intense- and Emet-Selch knew that applied to people as well as topics. Either something or someone was worthwhile or they weren't, and no amount of waiting around would change things. It was perhaps more that his investments were progressively fewer, unwilling to risk himself on even the attempt. But once begun--
Even so. Even so, as soon as something touched him on a more personal level, and moreover that he was made aware of it, was forced to be conscious of it- then he recoiled. Anticipating pain even before it had been applied, because what else could he expect? Never mind that most of his suffering was self-inflicted. He'd never learned to cope.]