[A doom that could not be cleansed... it was something they could only wait out, never knowing how much longer either of them had left. An unsettling knowledge, and an unsettling experience; even giving themselves over to it entirely, Emet-Selch couldn't shake that sense of impending loss.
Affection traded, encouraged. A persistent affirmation of the other's existence, that this moment was currently happening. It was terrible how weak he was to this sort of thing, the Ascian thought. That openness, and understanding and acceptance cut through him, the moment he'd allowed himself even a moment of vulnerability. Even though Mettaton didn't agree with him, he hadn't left him.
He felt weak, just at the thought, lightheaded. Or was that exhaustion? Any time he tried to move or hold the robot firmly, Emet-Selch trembled from it; gentleness was all he had left. And determination to remain. A sound that's just as weak is swallowed up in their kiss, desperate for a similar feeling. To tie himself to something that wouldn't be lost, that wouldn't disappear.
Emet-Selch did not consider captivity to be a positive experience. Encountering Mettaton had been the one gain: their unusual circumstances had been a requirement, he could admit, to obtaining their current closeness. If they'd both been at their 'best', their most controlled, performative appearances- Emet-Selch is almost certain he would've written him off as a trivial annoyance. There would've been no reason, no chance for any sort of Bond. So that much was... fortunate, in some twisted way.
Oh, but the negatives. Paranoia, a greater awareness of his own helplessness, his own fragility. To someone else, this might make a learning or humbling experience, but it had just left him more unstable. Shaken, frightened- his nightmares layered captivity on top of Amaurot's destruction. The idea of going through it again terrified; he didn't know how he'd make it through the next time. Occasionally he wondered if everything now was the delusion- that he was still there, ever awaiting death. That moments like this were the cruelest of all possible torments, that he'd be stripped of it soon enough, to awaken alone and slowly dying.
Of course he hadn't spoken to anyone about any of this.
But Emet-Selch is quiet at Mettaton's words, hand returning to stroking through his hair, petting him as he speaks, and continuing to do so even after he finished.]
...It's not exactly often that an Ascian receives gratitude.
[And he's quite touched by it, while also- displeased to hear of what Mettaton had been suffering through, in addition to literal torture. ...But he supposed that was a normal reaction, when caring about someone. What trouble, feelings were. They always had been.
It's not a- bite exactly, but he takes Mettaton's lower lip between his teeth as he considers, trailing his tongue over it. They still tasted of each other, he thought. Another reassurance, even when he has to let go in order to speak.]
...I would go through it again, then. To meet you, and gain this. And to spare you from your continued fate.
no subject
Affection traded, encouraged. A persistent affirmation of the other's existence, that this moment was currently happening. It was terrible how weak he was to this sort of thing, the Ascian thought. That openness, and understanding and acceptance cut through him, the moment he'd allowed himself even a moment of vulnerability. Even though Mettaton didn't agree with him, he hadn't left him.
He felt weak, just at the thought, lightheaded. Or was that exhaustion? Any time he tried to move or hold the robot firmly, Emet-Selch trembled from it; gentleness was all he had left. And determination to remain. A sound that's just as weak is swallowed up in their kiss, desperate for a similar feeling. To tie himself to something that wouldn't be lost, that wouldn't disappear.
Emet-Selch did not consider captivity to be a positive experience. Encountering Mettaton had been the one gain: their unusual circumstances had been a requirement, he could admit, to obtaining their current closeness. If they'd both been at their 'best', their most controlled, performative appearances- Emet-Selch is almost certain he would've written him off as a trivial annoyance. There would've been no reason, no chance for any sort of Bond. So that much was... fortunate, in some twisted way.
Oh, but the negatives. Paranoia, a greater awareness of his own helplessness, his own fragility. To someone else, this might make a learning or humbling experience, but it had just left him more unstable. Shaken, frightened- his nightmares layered captivity on top of Amaurot's destruction. The idea of going through it again terrified; he didn't know how he'd make it through the next time. Occasionally he wondered if everything now was the delusion- that he was still there, ever awaiting death. That moments like this were the cruelest of all possible torments, that he'd be stripped of it soon enough, to awaken alone and slowly dying.
Of course he hadn't spoken to anyone about any of this.
But Emet-Selch is quiet at Mettaton's words, hand returning to stroking through his hair, petting him as he speaks, and continuing to do so even after he finished.]
...It's not exactly often that an Ascian receives gratitude.
[And he's quite touched by it, while also- displeased to hear of what Mettaton had been suffering through, in addition to literal torture. ...But he supposed that was a normal reaction, when caring about someone. What trouble, feelings were. They always had been.
It's not a- bite exactly, but he takes Mettaton's lower lip between his teeth as he considers, trailing his tongue over it. They still tasted of each other, he thought. Another reassurance, even when he has to let go in order to speak.]
...I would go through it again, then. To meet you, and gain this. And to spare you from your continued fate.