[...There was that unpleasant and unwanted feeling again. He'd had it just recently before, with K'rihnn, when the miqo'te had expressed being scared and helpless at not knowing why the Ascian kept lapsing into unconsciousness, and to only be told about the hows of it afterward--
Guilt again, only it was worse this time, both because it was Mettaton, and because Emet-Selch knew exactly what he was doing. It was the same thing he always did.]
You're the one who likes to talk, not I. Don't expect anything.
[Attachment wasn't enough to shift ingrained habit. Learned and practiced behavior. Despite guilt and love (or in a terrible way, because of it), it's a reply snapped out, manner sharp. Silent afterward, he focuses on his breathing in some effort to calm himself, without much success. How was it ever possible to express... anything, without resorting to this? If he was hurting, the world and all in it deserved to suffer with him.
He hated it, but didn't know how to stop doing it. How to stop reacting this way, especially towards someone like Mettaton, who he knew would at least listen to him. Wouldn't discount him. But instead, Emet-Selch steps fully to the opposite side of the room, taking a stance against the wall, keeping his distance. Insofar as he can, physically, in a small room. And emotionally: wary, guilty, conflicted. More than a fair portion of his agitation was turned inward, unable to prevent it from existing, but equally as unable to do anything with it. And so it ate at him, as it ever would.
Though it would never pass as genuinely neutral, his voice makes more of an effort to emulate it.]
There's nothing I require assistance with. [Looking to the side, he stares out the still-open window without really seeing it. It was true he wasn't comfortable in this place. But he detested the idea of being chased from it either. Spite and Irhya were the only reasons he hadn't already left (plus inertia). Even so--] Perhaps I will find somewhere else. Something small.
[Away from everything and everyone- or at least, as much as he could, within the city.]
no subject
Guilt again, only it was worse this time, both because it was Mettaton, and because Emet-Selch knew exactly what he was doing. It was the same thing he always did.]
You're the one who likes to talk, not I. Don't expect anything.
[Attachment wasn't enough to shift ingrained habit. Learned and practiced behavior. Despite guilt and love (or in a terrible way, because of it), it's a reply snapped out, manner sharp. Silent afterward, he focuses on his breathing in some effort to calm himself, without much success. How was it ever possible to express... anything, without resorting to this? If he was hurting, the world and all in it deserved to suffer with him.
He hated it, but didn't know how to stop doing it. How to stop reacting this way, especially towards someone like Mettaton, who he knew would at least listen to him. Wouldn't discount him. But instead, Emet-Selch steps fully to the opposite side of the room, taking a stance against the wall, keeping his distance. Insofar as he can, physically, in a small room. And emotionally: wary, guilty, conflicted. More than a fair portion of his agitation was turned inward, unable to prevent it from existing, but equally as unable to do anything with it. And so it ate at him, as it ever would.
Though it would never pass as genuinely neutral, his voice makes more of an effort to emulate it.]
There's nothing I require assistance with. [Looking to the side, he stares out the still-open window without really seeing it. It was true he wasn't comfortable in this place. But he detested the idea of being chased from it either. Spite and Irhya were the only reasons he hadn't already left (plus inertia). Even so--] Perhaps I will find somewhere else. Something small.
[Away from everything and everyone- or at least, as much as he could, within the city.]