[A moment spared, though brief, for their laced fingers. Mettaton even spares a glance toward them, as if to be sure it's real by sight. In case sensation's too new, and he requires something he's always had to double check. Absurd, really: he's the one who grabbed his hand in the first place. But just as Waterfall cast light upon Emet-Selch's face in a particular way, so too does the glow from Aefenglom's mellow lamps. The truly ordinary nature of this, perhaps, is what strikes Mettaton as partially responsible for its sentimentality.
He squeezes his hand, listening to what the Ascian has to say on the matter of the man he saw called Varis, and hints more of that vast history he's wanted to know more of.
Mettaton pries his attention away from his lover's face in his thought, considering his obvious dislike of Varis in addition to the concept of Siring Children for One Purpose Or Another, the operative word being Purpose. How did Emet-Selch view any concept of mortal family, anyway? Surely a man like this couldn't have gone his whole life without attachment to any of them; Mettaton feels it silly to even ask.
Just because he dislikes this one doesn't mean he's disliked them all. Besides, Varis did seem petty, to shoot Emet-Selch in spite of his immortality.]
What a waste of a bullet. [Even though an emperor's sure to have bullets aplenty...] It must hurt. Being killed so viciously and suddenly. How wretched. I couldn't imagine it.
[Especially since the condition of his own particular brand of incorporeality dictates that if you can feel it, you're doomed to live it until the very end. Then you die. Of course he couldn't imagine it. But it strikes him as an unnecessary cruelty, even if Varis clearly felt some manner of resentment to his Ascian of a grandfather. Probably, Mettaton imagines, for using his nation as a piece on the board of his grand designs, based what else he saw. So, just... being an Ascian, and saying a lot of words. (Mettaton, personally, was charmed by his theatricality.)
...Oh, he's unable to restrain himself. Assuming and hearing about it are two different things completely.]
How about... a family you cared for? Surely you had that, in your many years. Does anything come to mind?
[Mettaton's ear flicks before just one of them leans, bending ever so slightly at the end in his inquisitiveness.]
no subject
He squeezes his hand, listening to what the Ascian has to say on the matter of the man he saw called Varis, and hints more of that vast history he's wanted to know more of.
Mettaton pries his attention away from his lover's face in his thought, considering his obvious dislike of Varis in addition to the concept of Siring Children for One Purpose Or Another, the operative word being Purpose. How did Emet-Selch view any concept of mortal family, anyway? Surely a man like this couldn't have gone his whole life without attachment to any of them; Mettaton feels it silly to even ask.
Just because he dislikes this one doesn't mean he's disliked them all. Besides, Varis did seem petty, to shoot Emet-Selch in spite of his immortality.]
What a waste of a bullet. [Even though an emperor's sure to have bullets aplenty...] It must hurt. Being killed so viciously and suddenly. How wretched. I couldn't imagine it.
[Especially since the condition of his own particular brand of incorporeality dictates that if you can feel it, you're doomed to live it until the very end. Then you die. Of course he couldn't imagine it. But it strikes him as an unnecessary cruelty, even if Varis clearly felt some manner of resentment to his Ascian of a grandfather. Probably, Mettaton imagines, for using his nation as a piece on the board of his grand designs, based what else he saw. So, just... being an Ascian, and saying a lot of words. (Mettaton, personally, was charmed by his theatricality.)
...Oh, he's unable to restrain himself. Assuming and hearing about it are two different things completely.]
How about... a family you cared for? Surely you had that, in your many years. Does anything come to mind?
[Mettaton's ear flicks before just one of them leans, bending ever so slightly at the end in his inquisitiveness.]