[That Mettaton should have any doubts about loving humanity- Emet-Selch would only encourage it. Agree with it. But he would, at this point, also sympathize, likening it to his own first experiences with the mortal generations post-sundering. The first times he'd ever witnessed cruelty. To have one's expectations so compromised, so threatened, on top of all else- it wasn't easy, nor straightforward. And in a way, Emet-Selch... despite his own views, also wished for Mettaton to come out of his ever greater contact with humanity with his love for them intact. They didn't deserve it, but to lose it would be- a sadder thing, he thought.

That they could cause any doubt at all would only make the Ascian more bitter towards them.]

Ah... thank you.

[For the offer of help, for everything. Just thinking on it all- the wash of emotion that runs through him is closer to adoration than love, leaving him ever weaker in its wake. Feeling that firmer grip, the idol's tension, Emet-Selch clings back in turn- or tries to, fingers shaking as they drag down to Mettaton's upper back, as his body huddles against his. He was so tired. And it was hard not to ruminate on what they'd been through. ...In some ways he supposes it's impressive that they both made it out 'intact.' That they functioned as well as they did.

But they came out of it with the groundwork for this. That was... surely worth some trauma. That was worth drowning himself with Bonds.

As with love, there's despair. Closing his eyes, he leans into those angled-kisses, scarcely breathing. Taking all of him in, soul and lips and arms, his person in its entirety.]

...Should I go under for a long time. Should I not wake up for--

[Months? Years? At all? He doesn't know. He doesn't specify. His host would be long dead after that, and he doesn't know what that would mean for him here. Sighing very quietly, he nudges back against Mettaton's face.]

You're immortal. --Be there when I return?