What drivel... to treat death so lightly. There's nothing attractive about dying, no charm to be applied to it. The events of our week at the Rathmores' mercy was but a precursor; their only flaw was a lack of follow-through.

[But by this point, it was the response he expected. To find entertainment in one's own funeral, to treat something like that so casually, as if it were just one more event to be the center of attention of. What a troublesome man. What irrational choices, to pick humanity over anything at all.]

That is what death will be. No mourners, no beauty- only solitude and the dark, one's only fate to be forgotten there.

[Despite his words, when Mettaton's head finds his shoulder, Emet-Selch shifts a hand up, to stroke slowly through the other man's hair, as though soothing himself with the contact. He knew miqo'te appreciated having their cat ears touched; were rabbit ears the same way? After a moment's deliberation he decides to try it; fingers slipping through his hair, the Ascian rubs gently at the base of one of those ears.]

Even if we survived... it's not as though I'd accept your company for that long.

[He says, even as he pets the puca's ears, even as he drapes his other arm loosely about his waist, encouraging his nearness.]