[It wasn't comfort that he felt, when Emet-Selch realized that Mettaton was remaining in the building. That he wasn't far, that he could track his position through the clatter of shattered objects, or the stomp of pacing heels. The Bond, as well, remained close. So close, and so open that it burned.
(More than once he was afraid it would break, their connection. His heart lurched with every distant smash, and his breathing stopped, lungs aching along with his throat, waiting for his lover's soaring madness to veer into hatred, if only for an instant. To decide he was truly unforgivable, and to snap what he truly was looking to break. But the moment never arrives and he ends up choking on air some seconds later, dizzied and still sick, waiting for the next brutal peak.)
No, Mettaton remaining close was its own version of dread. As rather than this small separation bringing calm, it only served to intensify the storm, with the only outlet being the insufficiency of objects. Even through his despair, Emet-Selch could tell it was getting worse, a haze of furor so thick he couldn't see past it, couldn't feel anything but his lover's suffering.
More than once does he try to convince himself to stand, to find him. So long as he could hear things shattering, breaking, a monster stalking about his possessions and smashing them, Mettaton was still somewhere he could reach. But his legs shake as much from fear as pain as his Bonded's mood deepens past blackened and into pure ferality. Into unthinking rage and frustration, broken and animalistic, surely tearing into anything that he could grasp. Even himself, perhaps.
(Emet-Selch remembered Mettaton describing his time becoming feral during their captivity, the way he'd ripped at himself without realizing, and he felt nauseous all over again. He should be there, he should be able to help, how... how could he have let it get this far-- he'd told him. He'd told him before that it wouldn't have to happen again, now that they were Bonded.)
He wanted to reach him. Even if he couldn't appease him through word, then his blood, his body- if Mettaton could tear into him instead, then- maybe that would be enough to save him. If the Ascian were the cause for this insanity, then he had to be the one to fix it. His blood would be succor, even if Mettaton had to devour him entirely for it to be enough. Then- then he could stop. They both could stop.
But he couldn't move from his place by the bed, curled against it as though trying to find some protection there, gaze fixed on the closed door even through his tears. But he couldn't move no matter how much he cursed at himself to try, to place himself in Mettaton's path again, even if it meant that the last thing he felt would be his teeth in his throat; at least it would mean that he wouldn't die alone.
When the fury begins to diminish by degrees, the Ascian doesn't immediately notice, his own feelings only becoming more predominant instead, the blackness of rage smoothing easily into that of misery. Despair remaining greatest of all, in its encompassing familiarity. It's etched starkly into every thought- or what passes for them- twisting all to fit a darker interpretation, reminding him in convincing whispers of the perfect uselessness in ever getting attached. One way or another he would be abandoned, and it was that much more bitter to know that it was his own fault.
The door opens with a loud noise and he freezes, as though the witch were the one with the puca's instinct towards stillness. Emet-Selch stares, not hearing him, and scarcely seeing him either, not even knowing what to hope for. Perhaps Mettaton had decided to try and sate himself on his blood after all, or had recalled that he was the one at fault for his current madness. There was something less dark about him, but- his vision is too blurry to know what or why. But... even if it was only another sign of his weakness, he... was relieved to see him again. It didn't matter if Mettaton was just here to kill him. This would be enough.
The puca closes in, lowering himself, and scooping Emet-Selch up into his arms. And for a moment, the Ascian remains frozen, not breathing- not resisting, but not helping either. He didn't understand it, what was happening, why Mettaton wasn't biting him, why he was being- kind?- to him after all this.
He shivers, but doesn't relax, rigidity only giving way to an exhausted tremble. Fear remains, evident in every breath, in the tears that continued to make a mess of his limited vision; not of Mettaton, or any danger he might pose to him, but only of him vanishing again.]
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(More than once he was afraid it would break, their connection. His heart lurched with every distant smash, and his breathing stopped, lungs aching along with his throat, waiting for his lover's soaring madness to veer into hatred, if only for an instant. To decide he was truly unforgivable, and to snap what he truly was looking to break. But the moment never arrives and he ends up choking on air some seconds later, dizzied and still sick, waiting for the next brutal peak.)
No, Mettaton remaining close was its own version of dread. As rather than this small separation bringing calm, it only served to intensify the storm, with the only outlet being the insufficiency of objects. Even through his despair, Emet-Selch could tell it was getting worse, a haze of furor so thick he couldn't see past it, couldn't feel anything but his lover's suffering.
More than once does he try to convince himself to stand, to find him. So long as he could hear things shattering, breaking, a monster stalking about his possessions and smashing them, Mettaton was still somewhere he could reach. But his legs shake as much from fear as pain as his Bonded's mood deepens past blackened and into pure ferality. Into unthinking rage and frustration, broken and animalistic, surely tearing into anything that he could grasp. Even himself, perhaps.
(Emet-Selch remembered Mettaton describing his time becoming feral during their captivity, the way he'd ripped at himself without realizing, and he felt nauseous all over again. He should be there, he should be able to help, how... how could he have let it get this far-- he'd told him. He'd told him before that it wouldn't have to happen again, now that they were Bonded.)
He wanted to reach him. Even if he couldn't appease him through word, then his blood, his body- if Mettaton could tear into him instead, then- maybe that would be enough to save him. If the Ascian were the cause for this insanity, then he had to be the one to fix it. His blood would be succor, even if Mettaton had to devour him entirely for it to be enough. Then- then he could stop. They both could stop.
But he couldn't move from his place by the bed, curled against it as though trying to find some protection there, gaze fixed on the closed door even through his tears. But he couldn't move no matter how much he cursed at himself to try, to place himself in Mettaton's path again, even if it meant that the last thing he felt would be his teeth in his throat; at least it would mean that he wouldn't die alone.
When the fury begins to diminish by degrees, the Ascian doesn't immediately notice, his own feelings only becoming more predominant instead, the blackness of rage smoothing easily into that of misery. Despair remaining greatest of all, in its encompassing familiarity. It's etched starkly into every thought- or what passes for them- twisting all to fit a darker interpretation, reminding him in convincing whispers of the perfect uselessness in ever getting attached. One way or another he would be abandoned, and it was that much more bitter to know that it was his own fault.
The door opens with a loud noise and he freezes, as though the witch were the one with the puca's instinct towards stillness. Emet-Selch stares, not hearing him, and scarcely seeing him either, not even knowing what to hope for. Perhaps Mettaton had decided to try and sate himself on his blood after all, or had recalled that he was the one at fault for his current madness. There was something less dark about him, but- his vision is too blurry to know what or why. But... even if it was only another sign of his weakness, he... was relieved to see him again. It didn't matter if Mettaton was just here to kill him. This would be enough.
The puca closes in, lowering himself, and scooping Emet-Selch up into his arms. And for a moment, the Ascian remains frozen, not breathing- not resisting, but not helping either. He didn't understand it, what was happening, why Mettaton wasn't biting him, why he was being- kind?- to him after all this.
He shivers, but doesn't relax, rigidity only giving way to an exhausted tremble. Fear remains, evident in every breath, in the tears that continued to make a mess of his limited vision; not of Mettaton, or any danger he might pose to him, but only of him vanishing again.]