[Emet-Selch's sudden pulling away from him alarms Mettaton, not having anticipated that response, obviously. His ears bolt upright, and he feels Emet-Selch's chill. He does nothing to his own end.
Favored human? Mettaton regards him incredulously. That he'd assume he got the adequate information on the events from just her simply because she's human... Even when he first met the two and viewed them fancifully as a romantic prospect, he wanted to figure out Emet-Selch's end of things. Her side isn't near enough. He feels hurt that Emet-Selch would think he has nothing to add, as though he's no part of it. That no part affected him.
And Mettaton's emotional state is in no good way aid him in arguing the point, even as he crosses his arms at first. It just swings, wounded and displeased and shocked and still ever curious, as he stares at his back.]
Well. What I hoped for... Was an account added by my favored person. You clearly find it biased, after all. That's hers, not yours.
[That chill doesn't sit well with him, however. That anger doesn't, either. But perhaps he needs more time.
So the problem was with some kind of presumption. Thinking they understood something about him that they so sorely lacked, maybe? Mettaton sighs. He can't quite piece together the nature of their conflict, but he's patient.
He doesn't walk away from Emet-Selch but instead drifts over to sit on the edge of his bed, where he collapses onto his back, ears askew as the product of his fall, gaze fixed on the ceiling. He closes his eye, that wrathful sensation of his Bonded's slotting into him familiarly compared to some other times they've talked. Though, the last he can recall him getting this upset was earlier on in their Bond, prior to a deeper connection. And so Mettaton manages to talk his whirlwind of surprise-hurt-worry into something less stormy, simmering down into disappointment (that he can't just get to know) and concern (over his Bonded's feelings).
He has quite a temper. More dimensions of feeling he rarely experiences for himself, and he almost regards it with awe, even if he wishes he could soothe. He can only imagine how his soul would feel. He imagines something similar to the time he spoke of Hydaelyn, perhaps.]
You're left with lingering fury over the matter.
[Stating his feelings aloud for him, to let him know what he feels and sees on his end. For now, Mettaton brushes aside the past.]
Well! It is done, yes. And I suppose I have no need to keep hunting down a way to keep more than three Bonds, do I? ...If you ever wish to talk about it, what better purpose for having grown these impressive ears?
[A brief pause, indicative of changing gears.]
Ah. Practical concerns to accompany this manner of fallout. Are you safe here, darling? Will you remain? Anything I can help you with?
[It's kind of a tricky matter, he imagines, being shacked up with people who have killed you once before. He could never experience the same thing for himself, but he tries to place himself in the shoes of what that might feel like. No matter how pleasant he finds Mira and Irhya, that fact remains. It can't sit well with Emet-Selch.]
[...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.]
[Eye still closed, his ears make an attempt to follow the sound of Emet-Selch in the room though they're pressed against blankets. And though he snaps at him and the tone of voice alarms Mettaton again, there's a smile that follows. It's true... he does like to talk. And his talent for talking often yields results even from those who don't.
Emet-Selch knows that trait of his well. Would that he could learn the benefit in talking at all. Nobody expresses their thoughts and feelings, and it all amasses and becomes a wrecking ball. What else is Emet-Selch supposed to do with all of his inner turmoil but forge his tongue into a searing knife at the slightest provocation?
Mettaton feels he'll have to crack him open, eventually. This may be his condition, but the ability to better communicate his feelings couldn't hurt. This Bond does him wonders.
He turns to face him, one of his ears freed from its fabric obstruction to emote as it pleases while the other bends to accommodate. Emet-Selch faces a wall as far from Mettaton as he could go, as if distance meant much when he could clear it in an instant. He considers this gesture oddly from a distance with an evaluating stare, but equates it with his words with some more gravity. He thinks he'll live somewhere else, and probably something to the tune of his conflict and guilt. The way he distances himself physically from the Puca. An attempt at being alone.
Mettaton hums thoughtfully. His ear folds back, displeased with this notion.]
Surely you don't plan to remain alone. How dreadful. And surely you know I could help you relocate.
[Not considering that he can just teleport things, Mettaton willingly offers himself up to the task. But then, he gasps excitedly at a new thought, snapping his fingers. His mood vacillates strongly.]
Oh! Or... You could stay with me! There's an idea.
[Surely Papyrus Wouldn't Mind. Surely Emet-Selch Won't Mind. Mettaton sits up, truly taken by this thought of having his Bonded close by.]
I have plenty of space for you, gorgeous. My room... Or, one of your own. I have plenty of spare rooms... Though you'd always be welcome in mine. What do you think?
[Emotions were there to fester and suffer with, and to occasionally spill over to burn all that they touched. Learning how to take... literally any other option would probably be an improvement.
But he was alone in this house despite living with others; what did it matter if he found some place where his physical state could match the rest of him? Some hole he could bury himself in and sleep, away from the sound of all others, the awareness of their creeping presence. Their inherent threat. He considers commenting something on that. Or on pointing out that he could teleport, and so really didn't need the puca's help when it came to hauling his meager belongings (and excessive furniture) around. Or instead on how perhaps he wouldn't bother telling Mettaton where he was going anyway, so he'd finally get some peace.... But he wasn't in the mood to say so, not even as a tease. He knew it'd come across as far more serious than intended.
And a futile threat regardless; with the Bond as a guide, the idol could track him down anyway. He'd already messaged him as such. Even without the Bond, the Ascian suspected he'd have a hard time evading him. It's a thought that- for a moment, at least- brings a brush of something similar to reassurance. More sad than the real thing, but similar.
But he's distracted from all of that at the suggestion of just- staying with Mettaton instead. An offer that shouldn't have come as much of a surprise as it did, and his attention turns back to him with a skeptical look.]
--I don't even know where you live.
[Which, for one, isn't a reason to refuse. And also something he could've easily found out at any time by like, asking. Or by using the Bond himself to track him down. It's more just a statement, something he follows with a crossing of his arms and a more thoughtful look.
...Perhaps the change in scenery would help. Perhaps the company would help. It would at least be different, and a change from his restless circling of his own thoughts, tearing at things to no use and no end. Perhaps it would only irritate him further, but right now- being anywhere else was a tempting idea. And being invited was- a congenial sort of feeling. To not be as uncomfortable somewhere for a while--
Distantly, Emet-Selch is completely unsurprised that Mettaton (from his mention of having plenty of spare rooms) had claimed one of the larger residences. Making do with something small and adequate didn't seem his style.]
But I suppose I could visit. For a time. I should know where you're staying, regardless....
[Though Emet-Selch suspected that as soon as he crossed the threshold into Mettaton's domain, he'd end up remaining there for longer than any original caution might imply.]
[Mettaton snorts at the Ascian's initial reply, as if not knowing where he lives in this moment were some kind of restraint against accepting his offer. Imagine asking for his location of residence at any point this whole time they've known each other... Though, Mettaton feels he would have offered it soon enough. Mettaton hasn't lived there for terribly long — although the sheer amount of him in that house would suggest otherwise. If Papyrus ever had a concern about the place not feeling lived in, it certainly feels lived in now that Mettaton's gotten his paws all over it.
Emet-Selch turns to face him. His smile grows, pleased both at meeting his gaze again, to have shifted the air, to have taken him off-guard, and at the very basic prospect of doing something to change things up for his Bonded. Hopefully, to some end of improvement. He nods approvingly, his ears tall once more in his increasingly pleasant mood.
It can be hard to cheer someone up after something so awful has transpired between two people he kept Bonded to him. Two people he was willing to maintain Bonds with even to his detriment, up until... recently, he supposes. Even giving him an outlet to air out his grievances soon doesn't seem to be working: the Ascian's content with remaining closed off, letting his rancor twist and warp within himself. Whatever happened between them wasn't as clean as Emet-Selch is making it out to be with his dismissal of it, the idol imagines. Mettaton realizes he might not be ready to even dwell on it in anything but this detached manner, in his ire. If he can do anything to help Emet-Selch cope, Mettaton thinks it's a good investment of his time to try. Distance might help.]
You should know where I live, yes. I agree! [He clasps his hands, lacing his fingers together.] Oh, how I'd adore having you teleport into my space unannounced, as I'm sure you'll do. I love a good surprise...
[Is that sarcasm? Or is it entirely genuine? Both. Mettaton flashes him a grin.]
A visit, then. For a time. ...One that can last as long as you'd like. [A wink. Usual disclaimer: he has one eye visible. It's only the way he tips his head that might suggest it happened at all.] How about I take you there now, Hades-darling? Guide you there tonight, so that you've complete access for all future visits. Planned, and not.
[An afterthought with a raised finger, since moving is just so labor intensive, he knows. In case his Bonded needed any more convincing:]
It's still in The Haven. We're not far.
[The most he's seen him move was in his own memories. But then, Mettaton was the one being led along. Of course he would have that perspective.]
[If pressed, Emet-Selch would claim that his mood and overall state had been just fine before Mettaton's visit, his dredging up of topics unnecessary. A detachment and indifference that he could maintain without problem so long as it was never questioned or prodded or given attention. This was coping, wasn't it? And if anyone made the mistake of touching on something that he did not want to address- well, they deserved every bit of repressed spite and fury that they provoked.
(But they didn't all deserve it, that was the problem. Mettaton didn't. Even K'rihnn didn't (though that was more complicated). If it weren't for those outliers, he'd have a much harder time even recognizing that there was any problem in what he was doing.)]
So long as you don't mind the chance of interruption.
[Said in an idle enough tone. But minded or not, Emet-Selch would teleport directly into his place, bypassing any and all doors for all future visits. Finally. Someone who appreciates an Ascian's tendency towards unannounced appearances and space invasions. Rather than putting up wards to specifically prevent such a thing (thanks, Exarch).
But the idea of leaving now was congenial as well, and he nods at the suggestion. Even without the reassurance of it not being far, he would've likely accepted (or if it was far, asked about the general region, so he could teleport them to a vicinity he was familiar with, and then walk the rest of the way). Emet-Selch was entirely capable of moving as much as necessary if given sufficient motivation. And getting away from this place for a time was sufficient. He gestures vaguely towards the door (while half-wondering if Mettaton would choose to pop out the window again).]
Lead the way. Any longer in this place, and I--
[A statement cut off by a noise of disgust, a temperamental shake of his head. Now that he was given the opportunity for some sort of out, some kind of refuge, every moment here felt that much more closed in. Threatening and restrictive.]
The sooner I'm free of this, the better.
[Nowhere could be home other than Amaurot, but at the moment, this house didn't even qualify as shelter.]
[A "good" "enough" mood as long as he kept to himself in this space and miraculously didn't encounter his housemates, Mettaton is sure. The room for improvement is impossibly vast.
Compliance with Mettaton's unpredictable planning earns him another nod and a smile, and he rises with a bounce to his step — not entirely an unusual thing for him, but he is pleased to be taking Emet-Selch elsewhere. Eager to see if he can help his Bonded unwind. Eager to take him to his own place, as MTT-Brand as he could make it without any such products. (It's his brand by virtue of being of his design, in the end. (Plus Papyrus's. (Plus at least three previous roommates, Papyrus has awful luck with people returning home on him.))
Fortunately, he doesn't seem inclined to lead Emet-Selch out the window.
From the doorway, Mettaton keeps his body facing the Ascian. Once he follows, he reaches out to brush his fingers against his arm. Reassurance? Perhaps the closest thing, though no sorrow appears on his features.]
I agree. One-hundred percent.
[Emet-Selch really shouldn't be hanging around with all of this tension; things can only get better for him if that atmosphere's let to relax some. Both for him, and for his housemates. Their relationships could only improve if the venom's dialed back, as well.]
I can't imagine how you've been getting along here, darling. Aside from being horridly accustomed to existing within these four walls, stealing outside of its confines as scarcely as you can manage. And, surely... you've spent a lot of time sleeping.
[And not entirely Sleeping MTT Disapproves Of, since he knows he likely had a lot to catch up on. He doesn't feel bad to be relieved that Emet-Selch's unburdened of four Bonds, even if it's regrettable that it came to be in such a way. Emet-Selch's well-being comes before that... even if Mettaton prioritized his wishes above even that. He'd do the same to himself. Wishes first, well-being second.
His hand, if received, will slide down to give his Bonded's hand a squeeze before Mettaton has to focus on not hitting things with his stupid broad shoulder guards on his way out. These small houses aren't for him.
...Mettaton forgets to grab the magitech charger, focused on other matters as he is. It was a compelling reason to stop by, but not his primary purpose.]
[Surely improvement comes from never ever addressing the things that bother you. This could have no negative consequences at any point in time.
Mettaton's eagerness at- life in general, Emet-Selch assumed- was expected, familiar, tiring to witness, and the smallest bit welcome. While the previous icy dip in his own demeanor hasn't fully thawed, the Ascian was trying to not hold onto it this time, to take instead the slight relief at going elsewhere, and the shades of comfort his Bonded's presence brought. He holds still at the touch to his arm, allowing it, briefly squeezing back at his hand when it reaches his own. A small brush against him before Mettaton moves to extricate himself from the room; all a small, physical sort of apology for pulling away from him before.]
There hasn't been much opportunity to leave it since... oh, the start of the year, come to think of it. From healing, and onward into unconsciousness.
[Sleeping was the best part, whenever he managed it. Whenever the dreams weren't unpleasant, whenever they didn't lead to him waking up in a fit of panic, the walls closing in and the world burning. Being curled up with someone else helped with that, but--
But he wasn't going to think about that.
The trip out of the house is straightforward enough, at least. Emet-Selch can operate any doors, there's no one around to get in the way or otherwise exist in his presence, so there's not much that can really go wrong.
Just being outside has him breathing slightly easier. He probably should get out more often, now that he was capable of both mobility and consciousness. Being cooped up that long wasn't good for anyone, and considering all else his mental state had to contend with, one less thing dragging him under was for the best.
And, well, even with the charger forgotten, once the Ascian has the ability to teleport directly between the two places, he'd probably remember to return it to Mettaton at some point. It wasn't as though it did himself any good. For now it's stored tidily away on mostly-unoccupied shelves.]
So what have you been occupying yourself with, apart from conversations you have no right to-- [Backing off from that with a sharp breath.] I'm surprised it took you so long to remember to bother me.
[Having his hand be squeezed back earns him a warmth to his smile and a quick rise to his ears, before Mettaton turns to fully leave. ...It's kind of funny that his ears not only touch the ceiling, but bend against it if he dares let them stand at full height. In case anybody had any questions who these houses were made for, the likely answer is humans.
The evening's easily succumbing to night, the two moons overhead waxing closer to fullness day by day. Unfortunately, for all of the senses Mettaton developed, he has yet to detect full temperature awareness: the warming weather's lost on him. But all other senses he's developed hit him at once, a shift in air impacting smell and taste and touch. He doesn't think he could get enough of that. For seemingly no reason at all, his ears lean in his curiosity for all of it, and remain postured just so as his Bonded begins speaking.
He doesn't flinch at conversations he has no right to, because he had full right to that conversation! His friend Mira called him to confide in him, and he would've snapped such if he didn't follow up with something else. (In the quickest imaginable hindsight, he realizes - wonders - if Emet-Selch would've gotten incensed about that, too. Perhaps he just doesn't understand what it means to share one's troubles with a confidante. That would check out. One of his ears flicker.)
But he shifts towards something that, for some, might make them grow insecure or accused. For Mettaton, he only becomes thoughtful, glancing up toward the moon and forming a fist under his chin.]
Me too. Especially because I kept wanting to see you...
[The idol's voice trails off while he considers a response. They walk, likely to whatever pace Emet-Selch wishes to keep. Mettaton could easily outpace him, and easily would.]
... I don't know! To be honest with you... I hardly noticed the days passing individually. It reminded me a bit of the way time passed Underground if you weren't careful. I have no idea why! Why that would be. Like I'm in... a daze?
[Anyway... He begins to shift to tasks he'd been performing, still using the moons as an anchor for his vision during his recall.]
My usual upkeep. Odd jobs. Night life... Oh! Did you know that theater laws are being eased up?? [For this, he drags his attention to Emet-Selch with a brightness. Then, a hint of smugness.] Go figure, that such a welcome change would pass a vote... immediately after I was arrested and charged for performance!! I think they were rightly charmed by me. Yes... performance will be allowed, as long as no magic is involved. Strictly. So I've been looking into that, obviously.
[At the mention of being in a daze, Emet-Selch only hums to himself, non-committal, but also clearly not offended at having not been rushed to at the nearest opportunity. Considering his own hazy memory of the past couple weeks, he can't really blame him for the delay. And though he'd wanted to see him as well (for some reason, and also something he'd avoid ever admitting to)- well, it wasn't as though they weren't capable of entertaining themselves. Even so, it wouldn't have been that much longer before the Ascian would've contacted him on his own, anyway.
And it was sort of interesting to hear what Mettaton had been getting himself into. Those sorts of trivial, mundane (sort of mundane) details of another person's life... were something he never really took much of an interest in. Was this another aspect of caring about someone?]
You were arrested? I thought the city unusually quiet for a time. Good to know it wasn't my imagination.
[There's no concern in his tone, only mild amusement, and perhaps curiosity. Of all the things to get arrested for- putting on an illegal show seemed... entirely in keeping with him. In both the nature of the crime and the flaunting of the rules themselves.
Their pace is relatively slow, unhurried. Emet-Selch doesn't think to make any attempt to pick up any quicker of a stride to match whatever Mettaton would be likely to possess on his own, though it's not as funereal of a speed as it could be. And the night air was nice, for the first time in what felt like years; there wasn't any hint left of the bite from Winter. A very solid Spring's evening, darkening to an equally as pleasant night. Lit and guided by moonlight, the city settling down around them- it was almost romantic.
Though theatre being unbanned was... good news, of sorts. The Ascian liked theatre, actually; it had been one of the few positive ventures he'd supported in Garlemald.]
What manner of shows do you intend on producing? Are they all so-- [Trashy and bizarre, he doesn't say, thinking back to what he'd witnessed through repeated journeys through Mettaton's mirror. Emet-Selch had certainly had spent a lot of time in there, consuming as much of his history as he could, for all that it had been weirdly focused on what seemed like a very short period.] I caught a few glimpses of various performances through your mirror. They were certainly... distinct.
[Mettaton's eye widens at the mention of having jumped back into his mirror. Of course he'd find him actually recording one of his shows! And... of course he'd have thoroughly taken advantage of his station, guarding it. This hardly surprises him, considering he did the exact same thing.
He wonders which of his shows he saw. He leans, the whole of him. Not just his ears.]
You did?? Yes... Distinct is a word I might apply to myself. [He'd turn "trashy and bizarre" into compliments too, somehow.] I can only hope that, if anyone else got to my mirror before we did... that they, too, were treated to my overwhelming stage presence.
[The chances of him seeing the ones with Frisk in them feel slim, since that happened all in like... a period of a few hours, at most. Those ones tested his patience a little, even if he found it in himself to have fun with them. (Not to say any of his regular programming is less bizarre. Or trashy.)]
Here... I want to finally focus on performance, rather than tapping into my talents as an anchor or a host. Not to say I won't do either of these... But they're a bit TV-specialized, ha-ha.
[He raises a finger, ears finally resuming a more pleasant, tall posture in his recollection. He gestures as he speaks, animated and lively merely at the recollection of doing something he fancied as exciting and worth his time. One of the first, and last, times he's gotten to perform with so many people... It was truly his element, he feels, and his energy for it is effusive.]
A few months back, Amadeus - a friend of mine, and a composer - held an opera under Parliament's nose, in the Grand Melodia Theater... and it went over splendidly. I'd like to do more of that. His was an obvious commentary upon the nature of Monster and Human, especially after what we'd seen in Dorchacht. The protagonist was an outsider, intended to represent a Monster. He was treated to the horror of what his kind endured in this city of "Canaries" and "Hawks," blind to the dangers that awaited him simply for being. To stay out of harm's way, the heroine had to teach him how to act... But she soon realized how oppressive her people's restrictions were against his kind.
Anyway. That's what I want to do! Naturally, I bring my own flair to the ordeal... But Amadeus likes that in me.
[is it possible for mettaton's act to go over well?? maybe... if his role is dictated by somebody who knows what they're DOING...]
[Overwhelming was one word for it. And it was, Emet-Selch supposed, all suitably entertaining, which is technically the point of such productions. Even so, his interest had been primarily to see more of his Bonded's life in his strange Underground world, rather than for the content of his individual shows. Without that connection, he doubted he would've given those memories much attention at all.
But since he had been paying attention, he still wasn't entirely sure what to make of Mettaton pretending to harm a human child, before progressing to ineffectually attempting to kill them. He wasn't about to judge him for it, but it had been a little surprising nonetheless.]
It's always possible... and for what it's worth, the only record of your prior self that I witnessed was the one I saw in your presence. And I did make repeated attempts.
[So who knows, maybe the mirror was merciful and only permitted a ghost-memory when Mettaton was there to allow it? That it was otherwise aligned with his desire to keep that part of himself hidden. Why not raise those futile hopes a little.... Also, unashamedly admitting to traipsing through his mirror as though he had any right to its contents. Which he did, because Mettaton was his, memories and all.
Glancing sideways at him, Emet-Selch watches his clear enthusiasm for this subject of performance. And while the idol was generally enthusiastic, or at the very least, excessively optimistic and positive- it was also obvious that this was something of particular interest and value. And while he had no idea how anyone could be so enthusiastic about anything, it wasn't a bad thing to bear witness to, at least in small bursts.
And that Mettaton seemed to be interested in proper theatre rather than just his surreal TV-programming was of slight relief. Or at least, it was something that the Ascian wouldn't mind watching for its own sake.]
Hmm... I must've missed this forbidden production, though I've heard mention of it. A pity I didn't see it- if I was even in the city at the time. Still, there shall be other opportunities. And your current form certainly gives you more options when it comes to expression.
[As sturdy as his box self was, and as nicely as it could be dressed, his EX body did have a number of advantages when it came to acting.]
[It is a reassurance to hear about the assortment of his memories made available to Emet-Selch in his absence, in fact. This relief is clear on his expression, a softening of his excitement into something pleased. Emet-Selch's attempt at instilling in him hope is effective, soothed by the prospect that maybe his mirror was merciful and dispensed only one less-wanted memory that night.
...It isn't to say that Emet-Selch wouldn't be the best person to receive them, however. But even considering that comes with a sort of self-consciousness, and it would unsettle him somewhat to imagine Emet-Selch standing before him again prior to having a body, where he couldn't be there to... uselessly gauge his reaction? Know exactly how he was seeing him and when? Mettaton's not sure what difference it makes, so it's ruled as illogical. ...He'd tolerate it, he decides. He'd have to surrender to that, given what he's already permitted the Ascian to have, which is the whole of him.
The comfort he feels has Mettaton reaching for Emet-Selch's hand, especially as he remarks upon the differences between his forms. That, too, gets Mettaton to light up. ...Not the kind of lighting he does when his face is a monitor with light-up squares. Rather, the kind where he smiles wide enough for it to reach his eye.
But reaching for his hand also just felt situationally appropriate, to Mettaton, who is very in tune with how romantic this feels. He just feels romantic toward his Bonded in general, however.]
There shall. We had to be a bit more secretive about it than we'd like... For obvious reasons. Not anymore! [With his free hand, he touches his own cheek as his gaze softens again.] I'm glad you're attuned to the wonders my new body yields me, anyway. I waited too long for this manner of expressiveness for it to go unappreciated. I think I can better connect with my audience in this way... But I also feel better than ever, like this.
[It's a nuance that he felt only mattered to him. It's precisely what draws him to the human form, after all.
... He chooses deliberately to avoid thinking about the insinuated future of the Underground Papyrus told him about, where he came from. Based on his second-hand account, he feels his popularity suffered among monsters for trying to exhibit this favored form. Mettaton wonders what he would've done. What he did do, in Papyrus's suggestion of events...
Mirrors. Mettaton pulls that finger from his cheek and opens his mouth, closes it, then fixes his gaze on Emet-Selch again.]
I saw more of yours, too, by the way. Memories. [A glance away. Then, back at Emet-Selch.] You have a grandson?! ...Who shot you. I don't know why this surprises me as much as it does. But. Wow. Talk about dramatic... And it was quite terrifying to behold. Even though I knew you weren't dead... if you stand before me today.
[Though he hadn't intended to take a walk of the evening as it settled into night, it wasn't an unpleasant experience. It may even have been a mildly pleasant one, due to any combination of factors. The simple change of scenery, the quiet of darkness, the company. Mettaton taking his hand felt wholly natural, fingers linking around his. Silently thinking on the different aspects of this experience, Emet-Selch finds it a difficult thing to quantify. It was something that shouldn't have struck him as at all strange- as surely this was the sort of activity people did, without thinking much of it?- but it was unusual for him.
Mettaton's vibrancy in regards to his theatrical future, his relief at the possibility that the secrets of his past might have gone unwitnessed by all others: it's all open and so easily visible, and moreover, easily felt, a shadow of it through the Bond, feelings completely alien in alignment.
...Being close to someone sure involved a whole lot of unsettling emotions. Though he was far less in tune with the romantic nature of much of anything, it did strike Emet-Selch as a sentimental moment, which puzzled him faintly. They weren't doing anything particularly special.
Mettaton's satisfaction with his human-shaped body was an understandable reaction; it was a substantial improvement over the last, which in itself was an improvement over not having a body at all. But to finally be able to express more and more as he wanted, to interact with the world on terms he found the most agreeable- it was no wonder that he was pleased with himself. ...While Emet-Selch would certainly love him regardless, were he reduced back to a rectangle, his current form was definitely the Ascian's preference.
Having his own mirror brought up has him glancing towards his Bonded again, not particularly surprised. Hearing that Mettaton had returned to it didn't bother him either; what did he have to hide from him? If anything, he would've been slightly offended if the idol hadn't gone back for another look. But as for what he saw, that gets an amused hum at his reaction. What an odd memory to get, though, something so recent and trivial.]
What a petty man... he knew entirely well he couldn't kill me that way.
[An idle scorn is more than evident in his tone; his disdain for his grandson seems greater than it is towards the average mortal, and he makes no attempt to hide it. Even being shot is clearly considered more of a nuisance, a sign of the man's childishness, rather than any kind of mortal insult. Not that having a body killed was pleasant, but he's gone through it thousands of times before, to no ill effect. He didn't change hosts often enough for it to become a detriment.
Returning to an earlier part of Mettaton's commentary, he hums again, more lightly as he replies.]
Ah yes- I've sired any number of children over the years, for one purpose or another. This host in particular has produced two... Varis being the offspring of the elder.
[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.]
[A completely ordinary occasion, between unusual people in an impossible world. A series of ever stranger and more unlikely events converged, leading to something entirely normal.]
I'll grant you that it's not pleasant, but there's worse ways to lose any individual body. He couldn't even get creative.
[Not that he would've been given any opportunity for such schemes, but that won't keep Emet-Selch from criticizing Varis for it anyway. The two really detested each other. And it wasn't as though Varis didn't have ample enough reason for it; with his father dying while still young, then growing up with his grandfather (who's emperor, half-revered as a god by their people, who founded their very nation--) absolutely detesting him for reasons he never, ever understood.
And then he came back from the 'dead' to disrupt everything he knew about their empire and the world itself. Varis had plenty of reasons to resent him, none of which Emet-Selch cared for in the slightest.
The line of questioning draws Mettaton another quick glance in his direction, before returning to fix his gaze on the path ahead of them, without really much seeing it. He's not surprised at the curiosity, and he absently rubs at the side of his lover's hand with his thumb as he thinks on it. This was all considerably personal, and more than he'd given out before. More than he'd consider giving to anyone else, he imagines.]
On occasion, there was one or another that I disliked less than most. A momentary fondness- perhaps I even felt some sort of hope for them. But they died, forgotten to all others, any change they wrought easily undone, and efforts lost. Mistakes to the last, and ones I grew better at not repeating.
[But without complete success. A smaller pause; being reminded of Varis calls to mind the last time he'd made the error of getting even a little attached to some transitory family.]
--The first son this body produced. [Emet-Selch never thought of any of his children as his. Only his host's. Sometimes, it was something he had to remind himself of, as with this one.] I thought... [His brows knit for a moment, a more unsure frown crossing his expression.] I don't know what I thought. But I didn't mislike him, from the time he was born.
[Why? It wasn't as though that child had been a person at that point. There was no personality or character there to get attached to, and yet--]
Excessively tall and fair, even by Garlean standards, he didn't much take after myself nor my wife. [A small sigh, and he waves the whole thing off with his free hand.] And then he died, succumbing to some absurd illness when he was around twenty. But not before leaving behind a record of his existence.
[Emet-Selch gets a sort of concerned look for him at his description of what defines a flaw, this nature of mortality. Of course Mettaton knows this about him already, but it strikes him as so odd of a thing to have a problem with. Everyone around him has been mortal, for the most part. He expected all along that humans would come and go. Everyone's just like this, in his eyes. It hardly seems like a flaw, except for when someone grows this attached, he supposes.
And yet, Mettaton still categorizes mortal and immortal lives differently. Not as one being superior over the other, just... regarded differently. He scarcely sees any issue with the eventual end of a mortal.
But Emet-Selch's not done, and he expected as much. He is an emotional sort. His ears both bend now, picking up on each peculiarity. This body, as though it's not his own. He can understand, he supposes... Although Emet-Selch expressed that he customized this form to his liking. It should be his body, no matter which he takes.
So Varis's father was a person he favored, taken from him far too soon. Someone who he'd grown fond of, which is a sweet thought: Mettaton finds himself smiling, never having known the other kinds of people who claimed a part of the Ascian's heart. (Mettaton decides that any of his various bodies are his, if he keeps them. Therefore, it's his son.) He wonders if Emet-Selch feels as though everyone he loves is taken from him prematurely, and it imbues Mettaton with remorse on his behalf.
Here, he was the one thinking about how mortal lives are just like this. Now he turns around and pities him for their susceptibility.
Mettaton closes his eye fleetingly, trusting his step to keep him from tripping.]
So he resembled Varis... He was tall. Light, long hair. ...Though I'm only beginning to understand why he appeared older than you. Something about you having bodies made up for you. [That's why he was able to reappear with a duplicate, Mettaton finally realizes. (Another implication: he saw more than one memory with Varis present.
A beat, and Mettaton does a shrug with his free arm.]
You don't have to know why you felt the way you did, darling. Feelings don't make sense! Even if they go against your regular world view. To think that someone could be taken so easily by illness... I can hardly imagine it. But. Even if you had only so short a time with him... You bear his memory.
[As Mettaton suggested, they're closing in on the former "center" of the Aristocratic district, which has now been overtaken by The Haven. The houses grow larger here, senselessly. The kinds with ballrooms and columns, excessive unless someone really had like a party of eight or more. He seems to veer in a direction toward one of them, one that has most of the lights out. (Definitely not a choice of Mettaton's: he'd stupidly leave lights on, always.)]
I'm glad to hear about him. That you'd care about him enough to share your fondness of him with me...
[After all, he's sure there might be more than Varis's father. In the end, that's who Emet-Selch chose to talk about.
When they approach the house, Mettaton produces a key. For some reason, unlocking doors is no problem in this specific incident. Would that he could treat all people's houses to the same decency as he does to his own. (The real modifier here is that he has a key to it... SO important.)]
[A memory of weakness, nothing more. Mettaton's statements don't sit entirely well with him, and Emet-Selch tenses slightly, with a degree more defensive irritability.]
It was nothing particularly strong. A lapse of judgement, nothing more.
[A flaw of unwanted sentimentality that he seemed cursed to keep repeating, on targets no more appropriate or lasting. Oh, he could well agree that feelings didn't make sense. If they did, he would've long since reasoned his way out of them. It would've made the passage of time far easier, a duty performed with the appropriate distance and detachment. Never tempted by those brief and shallow lives he was forced to surround himself with.
The other Ascians were not quite so conflicted. While they all disparaged mortals, they didn't despise or resent them to the same degree as Emet-Selch. They also didn't make the mistake of getting at all attached to any of them.
Distracted briefly by thinking back on Mettaton's first statement, he's both unsurprised that the idol had apparently gone for yet another memory, while bewildered as to why he received yet another recent one with Varis, of all people. It wasn't a moment of particular importance, though it would be the last time he'd ever be on the Source. He'd never return from the First....
Which was a thought he didn't particularly want to have (but when did that matter), and he shakes his head at it as he continues.]
But if you've seen that much... yes, Varis was experimenting with the science of cloning, using my original host's remains as a subject. [A light shrug, waiting as Mettaton unlocks the door to his own house (So this is property he's unwilling to damage with a kick, Emet-Selch makes a mental note of. He's also thoroughly unsurprised as to the particular district that Mettaton has decided to grace with his presence.).] The results provided me with a surplus of empty vessels, all at my current apparent age. Although- technically, this particular shell isn't even one of those.
[Might as well explain the rest, he supposes....]
The travel between Source and shard can only be done by soul alone. Though the Exarch found a way around that for our dear heroes... [A continued mystery to him and source of vexation; with another frown he forces himself back on subject.] On my arrival on the First without flesh of my own, I took over some unfortunate at random, molding him into this more familiar shape.
[A lapse of judgement, like any time Emet-Selch holds any manner of fondness for anyone, he supposes. It earns a very short hum that could either be one of curious doubt or one of acknowledgement.
He'd gathered as much about this cloning business, wondering just how many bodies existed in there for Emet-Selch's taking. Enough to jump to them at a moment's notice, he considers, as he pulls open the door and guides Emet-Selch into the dim lobby of the house, lit only by wayward lights from whatever remains down a flanking corridor. Pulling the door shut behind him, he's stricken with the news that this body... somehow isn't one of the products of cloning, but rather, of taking a body and manipulating it to his will. He analyzes it in the low light, but he doesn't really need to. He's already studied him many times before.]
That much ability to alter your form... Such talent. You look just as you did standing before Varis. Haha... You fill me with envy, you know.
[To punctuate this envy, Mettaton takes his free hand and graces his fingers along Emet-Selch's cheek in admiration.
Envy? Mettaton's not lying: he feels envious, but it's not a caustic sort that burns him and Emet-Selch in the process. There's jealousy, but it's more awe and intrigue in his Bonded's ability to not only jump from organic host to host, but the ability to subsequently customize its shape so thoroughly! ...And for as much as Mettaton loves humanity, it's another one of those situations where he feels that a human's life could be spent on housing himself. (Whoops.) Would that he could take on human hosts, only to manipulate them into the perfect image of himself! (Two reasons he'd kill a human: to save humanity, and to achieve a perfect body, apparently.)
But, that's neither here nor there. Impossibility beyond even what he's already achieved, nothing even dreaming could manage. He's more than satisfied with his robotic body, he decides.
It's still impressive that Emet-Selch's current form is the spitting image of the one he saw him with in all other instances, prior to arriving before... the Exarch, and the gaggle of "heroes," none of who were completely recognizable to him. Some of them, he thought he'd seen before, but only traces of.
Yes... another memory consumed. The only awareness he has of the Exarch, really.]
But I imagine it must take something out of you. Molding it to perfection. Clones would make the process far easier. I can see the benefit. Fewer lives taken, which is an added bonus!
[...To Mettaton!
The lights in this house are lit, which yields... a living room within sight, decorated in an expensive, formal-looking black couch, one that surprisingly predates Mettaton's stay here. Some of the furniture comes from previous residents, but none of them had taste objectionable to Mettaton. The overall colors of this room are of blacks and dark greys, with accents of red or, heaven forbid, magenta. Of course. The couch has such bright cushions on it, with the addition of some black, lacy ones... From a distance, it might be difficult to tell, but they've been chewed on by somebody. Not naming names or anything. It's as "modern"-appearing as it can be, given the setting — just the way Mettaton sees style, while Aefenglom's idea of it lags in floral print hell sometimes.
But Mettaton unhands Emet-Selch to let him have the house.]
Upstairs are the rooms. Most of which I also furnished. [Because this is what he does with his money.] Would you like to go there, darling?
[That's all fondness amounted to, ultimately: a mistake. That he was currently indulging in it didn't change that, or make it any less of a poor decision, he thought. A flaw he couldn't overcome, but wouldn't fully embrace. And so, he would continue to take the worst option of repeating the error, while making sure to not enjoy a moment of it.
The low light of the entranceway isn't particularly dimmer than the outside, so it takes little adjustment for Emet-Selch to take in as much as he could of the lobby, before being distracted by the touch to his face, glancing back up to Mettaton at the contact and the comment. Raising an eyebrow at the mention of envy, but- well, he wasn't about to deny the advantages such a skill had brought him.]
Hm, it is a convenient trick, isn't it? But quite tiring, you're right about that. [Lives taken was Not An Issue.] Though with your burgeoning shapeshifting ability, surely you'll be able to match me for it in time. Honestly- [And at this, he fixes Mettaton with an accusatory look- though not a wholly serious one.] I was learning transfiguration for your sake. If I'd known a puca's native talents would leave it redundant, I would've spent the time studying something more useful.
[It's not a field Emet-Selch would've bothered with otherwise. He sighs, even as they pass into the living room, a space where the lights remained lit and he could make out further detail of the house. Stepping into it slowly, approaching it like an animal being released into its new territory, he takes a brief, meandering look around.
The decor was decidedly less garish than he'd expected. Being surprised by that, Emet-Selch supposes, was probably unfair of him. Though not what he would've picked out, the room that Mettaton had taken upon himself to develop for him had been fine. So why wouldn't Mettaton's own house follow similar patterns of acceptable taste? It wasn't as though the Ascian was opposed to accents of color, and the splashes of red (or red-adjacent) in this living area kept it from looking too dull or cold. Aesthetic choices he could accept without issue (though the oddly-damaged pillows were... odd).
But it's soon enough that he completes his small exploratory foray, returning to Mettaton's side and regarding him again.]
You can show me the rest. 'Tis certainly a lot of space for one person.
[He'd been wondering about his note-taking on magic. It was an idle enough curiosity to never feel inclined to inquire upon it. But it leaves him stunned enough that he needs to take a moment to digest this information as he watches Emet-Selch roam, his mind wandering along the lines of his study of transfiguration on his behalf, something he doesn't appear interested in for any other purpose. His mind is quite vivid in its imagination of the whole process, and he suddenly remembers some sort of demand to know why he hadn't demonstrated his capability for shapeshifting before the first time he demonstrated his... trick. He doesn't remember the phrasing clearly — after all, he was a bit Distracted.
So it takes him a moment to recover, flattered and charmed by the effort. He can only imagine how delighted he'd be if he couldn't change the composition of his body on his own. As Emet-Selch returns to him, he waits with a finger pressed over his smile, arm folded over his middle in his satisfaction. He finds it thoughtful, worth all the love he feels for him at the attempted gesture, to know that he has someone who would go through the effort to alter his body further to his perfect liking.
He feels determined to show him his own attempts at practice now. ...Though there's a level of brief unease that washes over him at the prospect. A new development, and it's not insecurity. Unease. Something's gone wrong in his shapeshifting practice, but he'll get to that later.
The robot doesn't take any part of Emet-Selch's speech as criticism, not from the accusatory look to the spaciousness of his chosen residence. The house is a frivolous and convenient inclination on his part, but the reason for his delay in shapeshifting is more complicated. Mettaton nods.]
Yes. Oh! The kitchen is over there... [A point in the direction of it. It's out of sight, but it's one of the fancy houses that people might expect to hire chefs for. Mettaton hasn't quite gotten to that level of excessiveness yet. As for its fixings, there's primarily food that Papyrus eats, food that Mettaton doesn't need to eat but eats anyway, and attempts at cooking. On both of their parts. Dubious attempts with a hit-or-miss in the realm of success (with far more misses), Papyrus's only saved by some guidance from Toriel. Mettaton's? Well... he was surprised at how bad he actually was at cooking, and has remained surprised ever since.] But anyway.
[Upstairs, then. Mettaton doesn't feel he needs to tell Emet-Selch that he has free reign of the place — after all, it's the unspoken truth that what's Mettaton's should also be his, and vice versa. Emet-Selch knows that. As most of the upper area is where any personal quarters are, Mettaton takes this moment to raise a finger.]
I don't live on my own, by the way. I have one housemate... He was quite lonely, by himself. [as if implying that mettaton gave him the grace of moving in with him...] Papyrus. He's a monster, like me... And a Turnskin, here in Aefenglom. I mentioned him to you, I recall. He's chatty. Charming and friendly. Amusing, too... You'll surely meet him, but he keeps himself busy with this or that. Just like I do!
[Friendly and charming, said as a compliment to him with a subdued laugh. Mettaton finds his company pleasant, that much is evident through and through. He's mostly gotten over any residual Rathrmore-based fear of him, far more easily than he could with most. It's hard to find Papyrus scary forever, even if he still freezes up sometimes if he starts getting growly as the full moons close in... It's fine. Mettaton can deal.]
He seems much happier having somebody with my presence living with him! Spacious as it is, I have a way about filling a room. Or, a building.
[As unconscious as he'd been the past month and a few, the Ascian had made slower progress in his transfiguration study than he would've liked, so he figures it's probably to the best that Mettaton was capable of managing it on his own. Still, even if ended up being unnecessary, he didn't view the effort as completely wasted; it had been a project, something to focus some attention on. And if he ever needed to pick up the field again for some other reason, he'd have a head start on learning it.
Though he wasn't entirely sure why (as it hadn't amounted to anything useful in the end), Mettaton looked as though he appreciated his intent- and because he did, that in and of itself made the whole thing feel worthwhile. A strange response to aborted practice. Regardless, he was curious as to how far the idol would be able to go with his shapeshifting powers; what he'd already seen was surely not the limit of it. A thought that has him brush against him as they head towards the stairs, though he spares a look and a nod in the direction of the rumored kitchen.
But it wouldn't come as much of a surprise to Emet-Selch to find that Mettaton was poor at the art of food preparation. Why wouldn't he be? When would he have ever gotten to practice (neverminding that absurdity of a cooking show)? Ghosts and robots didn't or couldn't eat, and however it worked now was something the Ascian didn't particularly care to question. But this would be one household that he wouldn't be raiding for free meals. Would he ever bother to use the kitchen otherwise? Who knows... if anything held him back, it'd be a lack of interest rather than shyness. Everything in this house was his, by virtue of it also being Mettaton's. They both knew that.
The mention that Mettaton had a housemate gives him pause, but he continues momentarily (though he's briefly annoyed that his Bonded hadn't thought to bring this up before). Still, with as large as this place was, did it matter? Emet-Selch had survived a smaller space with three others, and up until recently, it had been something he had faced with a grudging toleration. The identity of said housemate gets more of a frown, and a thoughtful sort of hum, unsure of what he thought about that.]
We've spoken, if only over the network. A loud sort, even in writing. I would hope that doesn't translate elsewhere.
[His hopes were not very high. Still, Emet-Selch didn't particularly dislike him, based on his limited impression of him. An obnoxious, but harmless type. But was everyone from that world excessively optimistic...? It was probably premature to judge a population by two members of it, but he was prepared to do so anyway.]
But I'm unsurprised a sociable sort like him would find your dubious company agreeable. I've no doubt you could fill half the city with your presence if you tried.
[And he says it like it's a bad thing. Emet-Selch also remains under the impression that this was Mettaton's house originally and Papyrus was clearly invited to stay with him, rather than the other way around.]
[A correction he adds with a sort of cocky smirk. Onto addressing Papyrus.]
I'm glad you two have already met! Even if over the network. Yes... He's been a long-time fan of mine. How flattering, to now share space with me. But I think he'll like you, Hades-darling.
[No commentary on how loud Papyrus is. Mettaton doesn't notice anything of the sort, but that's because he's no doubt louder, or otherwise immune. Or otherwise distanced, in this spacious house. Or otherwise not home. It's particularly around full moons that things get stupid... Because Monsters get stupid. Mettaton acknowledges this with some mild chagrin.
The lingering sensation of his Bonded having brushed against him sets Mettaton on the course toward his own room, deciding concretely that he wants to take him in there. As he walks, he gestures with both palms out toward the whole of the hallway.]
Any of these rooms can be yours, at your choosing, sweetheart. Any time! For as long as you'd like. I'm sure there's one you'll find acceptable...
[No pressure to stay, but the invitation to stake claim to the space in a house that could, occasionally, get noisy (and very full of Mettaton), is there.
(For when he gets the chance to take the house for himself, there's a room adjacent to his own that Mettaton has decorated in deep navy blues, dark all around but with the warmth of a hint of gold — choices Mettaton picked to trade his into his Bonded's room as a retroactive correction to customize it to his tastes. But he felt it could wait. And the decor put to use, in the meantime. Now it could be his, only here?)
But Mettaton doesn't point to any room in particular at the moment, instead guiding Emet-Selch to his own. He turns his attention to his Bonded expectantly.]
But right now, I want you in mine.
[Beckoning him to follow, Mettaton's ears are tall yet relaxed. He'll close the door behind him once he enters.
The impression of color is surprisingly not pink. (He can change it to whatever he wants at any time.) Instead, it's purples and golds — and plenty of each, its angle something regal, if not over-the-top. Therefore, it's appropriately Mettaton.
The idol's room is well-kept with far more personal effects than anything Emet-Selch has, a lot of his inclinations leaning toward finery and objects that sparkle. A room for a person who is vain, complete with a full-body mirror. (All the better to admire himself with.) Gemstones and jewelry aren't things he wears for just any occasion, but he possesses it nonetheless, both for wearing and for mere display. He is both Mettaton, and a Puca. An open closet betrays a growing collection of fashion (and it leans ostentatious or crisp and sophisticated), some of which are intended to fit any configuration of his bodies, plus more... normal human-shaped attire. Some books, any indication at all that Mettaton reads sometimes, though the majority of them appear to be fiction. (There's one thick one on the mechanics of Bonding, as authored by a Witch from the Coven.) What else is he to do without TV and without sleep??
(...There's a bin full of chewed pen-shaped objects. Absolutely decimated, and not by the Turnskin in the house. Mettaton would rather that not be noticed.)]
[It would end up being a fairly workable arrangement: leaving his old house when it became too uncomfortable, or for a change of scenery; return to it whenever this place became too loud despite it being larger and having fewer people in it. And whenever Emet-Selch does get a chance to peer through the rooms (of course he'd look through all of them, what was potential privacy invasion), he'd wonder about the blue-and-gold one (which would be what he'd end up accepting). Had Mettaton been intending to invite him, or otherwise thinking of him? He's arrogant enough to assume that's the case, and not just coincidence, or Mettaton having a variety of color preferences. Why wouldn't each room have their own sort of theme?
But an expectation of following is fine with him, moving into Mettaton's space and finding it to be extremely him (even with the lack of pink). If not excessive to the point of tastelessness, it left an impression, and that impression was very Mettaton. And much like with the downstairs, Emet-Selch takes a small roam around the place, taking the measure of this new bit of territory as well.
Sorry, Mettaton, he does notice that bin of incredibly chewed-up pen-shaped detritus, though apart from a very low hum he doesn't comment on it or allow his gaze to linger on it for too long. An easy thing to do, considering how much else the room consisted of. The small details, the things that glittered from any number of directions. The books which stood out by not glittering and also by existing at all- though considering the city's lack of more modern entertainments, he supposed that even the idol might be reduced to having to read something, now and again, to pass the time.
But despite it all, the room didn't feel disordered or cluttered, or a demonstration of hording without intent. This was a place of someone who took care in their surroundings, rather than merely existed within them, which he supposed he could appreciate.]
For someone who doesn't require clothes, you've certainly gained a collection.
[Far, far more than anything the Ascian possessed, though that wasn't difficult. Shaking his head, he returns to stand in front of him, regarding Mettaton in the same way as his room, tone low and a touch amused.]
Do you even use half of all this...?
[It was another choice of living that was foreign to him, to collect things for the sake of the collection, for the display.]
[For now, he merely places a hand upon his hip as he relaxes, observing his Bonded as he wanders his own space with a sort of overbearing appreciation for it. Even if it's a space he's made for himself during this stay in Aefenglom, for however long that'll last, it's still his, as well as everything in it.]
Why does it matter? I like it all. Just as I like to be handsomely dressed.
[Simple as that, because Mettaton's rhyme and reason is to surround himself in things that appeal to his senses, which he's gained more and more of. New appreciations for things, such as touch and smell, yielding to him a preference for certain textiles or the smells of one candle over another. All of these things are things he'll take for himself.
...With such a careful eye for detail, a very troubling aspect of this room might be noticed. There's a spot on the rug for all that he tried to clean it, its fibers a color light enough for it to show. Blood. Mettaton doesn't bleed. The environmental storytelling continues: there's another book that isn't fiction. In fact, it's a text of Aefenglom's understanding of human-and-monster anatomy-physiology. Its spine is turned away from view, however. If it all escapes the Ascian's notice, it's just as well: Mettaton will likely talk about it.
what... what are you doin in here, mettaton...?
Standing before him, Mettaton smiles at him and reaches to press his fingertips to Emet-Selch's chest. His attention rakes up to meet his eyes, taking him in and enjoying his tone of voice.]
It must shock you. To find yourself in someone's space who enjoys possessions as much as I do. I wouldn't take anything in here that I didn't fancy, beautiful.
[As if Emet-Selch is among those things, even though he's a person, not a glittering diamond. His fingertips become his entire palm, a smooth transition into feeling him up again. As one does.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Favored human? Mettaton regards him incredulously. That he'd assume he got the adequate information on the events from just her simply because she's human... Even when he first met the two and viewed them fancifully as a romantic prospect, he wanted to figure out Emet-Selch's end of things. Her side isn't near enough. He feels hurt that Emet-Selch would think he has nothing to add, as though he's no part of it. That no part affected him.
And Mettaton's emotional state is in no good way aid him in arguing the point, even as he crosses his arms at first. It just swings, wounded and displeased and shocked and still ever curious, as he stares at his back.]
Well. What I hoped for... Was an account added by my favored person. You clearly find it biased, after all. That's hers, not yours.
[That chill doesn't sit well with him, however. That anger doesn't, either. But perhaps he needs more time.
So the problem was with some kind of presumption. Thinking they understood something about him that they so sorely lacked, maybe? Mettaton sighs. He can't quite piece together the nature of their conflict, but he's patient.
He doesn't walk away from Emet-Selch but instead drifts over to sit on the edge of his bed, where he collapses onto his back, ears askew as the product of his fall, gaze fixed on the ceiling. He closes his eye, that wrathful sensation of his Bonded's slotting into him familiarly compared to some other times they've talked. Though, the last he can recall him getting this upset was earlier on in their Bond, prior to a deeper connection. And so Mettaton manages to talk his whirlwind of surprise-hurt-worry into something less stormy, simmering down into disappointment (that he can't just get to know) and concern (over his Bonded's feelings).
He has quite a temper. More dimensions of feeling he rarely experiences for himself, and he almost regards it with awe, even if he wishes he could soothe. He can only imagine how his soul would feel. He imagines something similar to the time he spoke of Hydaelyn, perhaps.]
You're left with lingering fury over the matter.
[Stating his feelings aloud for him, to let him know what he feels and sees on his end. For now, Mettaton brushes aside the past.]
Well! It is done, yes. And I suppose I have no need to keep hunting down a way to keep more than three Bonds, do I? ...If you ever wish to talk about it, what better purpose for having grown these impressive ears?
[A brief pause, indicative of changing gears.]
Ah. Practical concerns to accompany this manner of fallout. Are you safe here, darling? Will you remain? Anything I can help you with?
[It's kind of a tricky matter, he imagines, being shacked up with people who have killed you once before. He could never experience the same thing for himself, but he tries to place himself in the shoes of what that might feel like. No matter how pleasant he finds Mira and Irhya, that fact remains. It can't sit well with Emet-Selch.]
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.]
no subject
Emet-Selch knows that trait of his well. Would that he could learn the benefit in talking at all. Nobody expresses their thoughts and feelings, and it all amasses and becomes a wrecking ball. What else is Emet-Selch supposed to do with all of his inner turmoil but forge his tongue into a searing knife at the slightest provocation?
Mettaton feels he'll have to crack him open, eventually. This may be his condition, but the ability to better communicate his feelings couldn't hurt. This Bond does him wonders.
He turns to face him, one of his ears freed from its fabric obstruction to emote as it pleases while the other bends to accommodate. Emet-Selch faces a wall as far from Mettaton as he could go, as if distance meant much when he could clear it in an instant. He considers this gesture oddly from a distance with an evaluating stare, but equates it with his words with some more gravity. He thinks he'll live somewhere else, and probably something to the tune of his conflict and guilt. The way he distances himself physically from the Puca. An attempt at being alone.
Mettaton hums thoughtfully. His ear folds back, displeased with this notion.]
Surely you don't plan to remain alone. How dreadful. And surely you know I could help you relocate.
[Not considering that he can just teleport things, Mettaton willingly offers himself up to the task. But then, he gasps excitedly at a new thought, snapping his fingers. His mood vacillates strongly.]
Oh! Or... You could stay with me! There's an idea.
[Surely Papyrus Wouldn't Mind. Surely Emet-Selch Won't Mind. Mettaton sits up, truly taken by this thought of having his Bonded close by.]
I have plenty of space for you, gorgeous. My room... Or, one of your own. I have plenty of spare rooms... Though you'd always be welcome in mine. What do you think?
no subject
But he was alone in this house despite living with others; what did it matter if he found some place where his physical state could match the rest of him? Some hole he could bury himself in and sleep, away from the sound of all others, the awareness of their creeping presence. Their inherent threat. He considers commenting something on that. Or on pointing out that he could teleport, and so really didn't need the puca's help when it came to hauling his meager belongings (and excessive furniture) around. Or instead on how perhaps he wouldn't bother telling Mettaton where he was going anyway, so he'd finally get some peace.... But he wasn't in the mood to say so, not even as a tease. He knew it'd come across as far more serious than intended.
And a futile threat regardless; with the Bond as a guide, the idol could track him down anyway. He'd already messaged him as such. Even without the Bond, the Ascian suspected he'd have a hard time evading him. It's a thought that- for a moment, at least- brings a brush of something similar to reassurance. More sad than the real thing, but similar.
But he's distracted from all of that at the suggestion of just- staying with Mettaton instead. An offer that shouldn't have come as much of a surprise as it did, and his attention turns back to him with a skeptical look.]
--I don't even know where you live.
[Which, for one, isn't a reason to refuse. And also something he could've easily found out at any time by like, asking. Or by using the Bond himself to track him down. It's more just a statement, something he follows with a crossing of his arms and a more thoughtful look.
...Perhaps the change in scenery would help. Perhaps the company would help. It would at least be different, and a change from his restless circling of his own thoughts, tearing at things to no use and no end. Perhaps it would only irritate him further, but right now- being anywhere else was a tempting idea. And being invited was- a congenial sort of feeling. To not be as uncomfortable somewhere for a while--
Distantly, Emet-Selch is completely unsurprised that Mettaton (from his mention of having plenty of spare rooms) had claimed one of the larger residences. Making do with something small and adequate didn't seem his style.]
But I suppose I could visit. For a time. I should know where you're staying, regardless....
[Though Emet-Selch suspected that as soon as he crossed the threshold into Mettaton's domain, he'd end up remaining there for longer than any original caution might imply.]
no subject
Emet-Selch turns to face him. His smile grows, pleased both at meeting his gaze again, to have shifted the air, to have taken him off-guard, and at the very basic prospect of doing something to change things up for his Bonded. Hopefully, to some end of improvement. He nods approvingly, his ears tall once more in his increasingly pleasant mood.
It can be hard to cheer someone up after something so awful has transpired between two people he kept Bonded to him. Two people he was willing to maintain Bonds with even to his detriment, up until... recently, he supposes. Even giving him an outlet to air out his grievances soon doesn't seem to be working: the Ascian's content with remaining closed off, letting his rancor twist and warp within himself. Whatever happened between them wasn't as clean as Emet-Selch is making it out to be with his dismissal of it, the idol imagines. Mettaton realizes he might not be ready to even dwell on it in anything but this detached manner, in his ire. If he can do anything to help Emet-Selch cope, Mettaton thinks it's a good investment of his time to try. Distance might help.]
You should know where I live, yes. I agree! [He clasps his hands, lacing his fingers together.] Oh, how I'd adore having you teleport into my space unannounced, as I'm sure you'll do. I love a good surprise...
[Is that sarcasm? Or is it entirely genuine? Both. Mettaton flashes him a grin.]
A visit, then. For a time. ...One that can last as long as you'd like. [A wink. Usual disclaimer: he has one eye visible. It's only the way he tips his head that might suggest it happened at all.] How about I take you there now, Hades-darling? Guide you there tonight, so that you've complete access for all future visits. Planned, and not.
[An afterthought with a raised finger, since moving is just so labor intensive, he knows. In case his Bonded needed any more convincing:]
It's still in The Haven. We're not far.
[The most he's seen him move was in his own memories. But then, Mettaton was the one being led along. Of course he would have that perspective.]
no subject
(But they didn't all deserve it, that was the problem. Mettaton didn't. Even K'rihnn didn't (though that was more complicated). If it weren't for those outliers, he'd have a much harder time even recognizing that there was any problem in what he was doing.)]
So long as you don't mind the chance of interruption.
[Said in an idle enough tone. But minded or not, Emet-Selch would teleport directly into his place, bypassing any and all doors for all future visits. Finally. Someone who appreciates an Ascian's tendency towards unannounced appearances and space invasions. Rather than putting up wards to specifically prevent such a thing (thanks, Exarch).
But the idea of leaving now was congenial as well, and he nods at the suggestion. Even without the reassurance of it not being far, he would've likely accepted (or if it was far, asked about the general region, so he could teleport them to a vicinity he was familiar with, and then walk the rest of the way). Emet-Selch was entirely capable of moving as much as necessary if given sufficient motivation. And getting away from this place for a time was sufficient. He gestures vaguely towards the door (while half-wondering if Mettaton would choose to pop out the window again).]
Lead the way. Any longer in this place, and I--
[A statement cut off by a noise of disgust, a temperamental shake of his head. Now that he was given the opportunity for some sort of out, some kind of refuge, every moment here felt that much more closed in. Threatening and restrictive.]
The sooner I'm free of this, the better.
[Nowhere could be home other than Amaurot, but at the moment, this house didn't even qualify as shelter.]
no subject
Compliance with Mettaton's unpredictable planning earns him another nod and a smile, and he rises with a bounce to his step — not entirely an unusual thing for him, but he is pleased to be taking Emet-Selch elsewhere. Eager to see if he can help his Bonded unwind. Eager to take him to his own place, as MTT-Brand as he could make it without any such products. (It's his brand by virtue of being of his design, in the end. (Plus Papyrus's. (Plus at least three previous roommates, Papyrus has awful luck with people returning home on him.))
Fortunately, he doesn't seem inclined to lead Emet-Selch out the window.
From the doorway, Mettaton keeps his body facing the Ascian. Once he follows, he reaches out to brush his fingers against his arm. Reassurance? Perhaps the closest thing, though no sorrow appears on his features.]
I agree. One-hundred percent.
[Emet-Selch really shouldn't be hanging around with all of this tension; things can only get better for him if that atmosphere's let to relax some. Both for him, and for his housemates. Their relationships could only improve if the venom's dialed back, as well.]
I can't imagine how you've been getting along here, darling. Aside from being horridly accustomed to existing within these four walls, stealing outside of its confines as scarcely as you can manage. And, surely... you've spent a lot of time sleeping.
[And not entirely Sleeping MTT Disapproves Of, since he knows he likely had a lot to catch up on. He doesn't feel bad to be relieved that Emet-Selch's unburdened of four Bonds, even if it's regrettable that it came to be in such a way. Emet-Selch's well-being comes before that... even if Mettaton prioritized his wishes above even that. He'd do the same to himself. Wishes first, well-being second.
His hand, if received, will slide down to give his Bonded's hand a squeeze before Mettaton has to focus on not hitting things with his stupid broad shoulder guards on his way out. These small houses aren't for him.
...Mettaton forgets to grab the magitech charger, focused on other matters as he is. It was a compelling reason to stop by, but not his primary purpose.]
no subject
Mettaton's eagerness at- life in general, Emet-Selch assumed- was expected, familiar, tiring to witness, and the smallest bit welcome. While the previous icy dip in his own demeanor hasn't fully thawed, the Ascian was trying to not hold onto it this time, to take instead the slight relief at going elsewhere, and the shades of comfort his Bonded's presence brought. He holds still at the touch to his arm, allowing it, briefly squeezing back at his hand when it reaches his own. A small brush against him before Mettaton moves to extricate himself from the room; all a small, physical sort of apology for pulling away from him before.]
There hasn't been much opportunity to leave it since... oh, the start of the year, come to think of it. From healing, and onward into unconsciousness.
[Sleeping was the best part, whenever he managed it. Whenever the dreams weren't unpleasant, whenever they didn't lead to him waking up in a fit of panic, the walls closing in and the world burning. Being curled up with someone else helped with that, but--
But he wasn't going to think about that.
The trip out of the house is straightforward enough, at least. Emet-Selch can operate any doors, there's no one around to get in the way or otherwise exist in his presence, so there's not much that can really go wrong.
Just being outside has him breathing slightly easier. He probably should get out more often, now that he was capable of both mobility and consciousness. Being cooped up that long wasn't good for anyone, and considering all else his mental state had to contend with, one less thing dragging him under was for the best.
And, well, even with the charger forgotten, once the Ascian has the ability to teleport directly between the two places, he'd probably remember to return it to Mettaton at some point. It wasn't as though it did himself any good. For now it's stored tidily away on mostly-unoccupied shelves.]
So what have you been occupying yourself with, apart from conversations you have no right to-- [Backing off from that with a sharp breath.] I'm surprised it took you so long to remember to bother me.
no subject
The evening's easily succumbing to night, the two moons overhead waxing closer to fullness day by day. Unfortunately, for all of the senses Mettaton developed, he has yet to detect full temperature awareness: the warming weather's lost on him. But all other senses he's developed hit him at once, a shift in air impacting smell and taste and touch. He doesn't think he could get enough of that. For seemingly no reason at all, his ears lean in his curiosity for all of it, and remain postured just so as his Bonded begins speaking.
He doesn't flinch at conversations he has no right to, because he had full right to that conversation! His friend Mira called him to confide in him, and he would've snapped such if he didn't follow up with something else. (In the quickest imaginable hindsight, he realizes - wonders - if Emet-Selch would've gotten incensed about that, too. Perhaps he just doesn't understand what it means to share one's troubles with a confidante. That would check out. One of his ears flicker.)
But he shifts towards something that, for some, might make them grow insecure or accused. For Mettaton, he only becomes thoughtful, glancing up toward the moon and forming a fist under his chin.]
Me too. Especially because I kept wanting to see you...
[The idol's voice trails off while he considers a response. They walk, likely to whatever pace Emet-Selch wishes to keep. Mettaton could easily outpace him, and easily would.]
... I don't know! To be honest with you... I hardly noticed the days passing individually. It reminded me a bit of the way time passed Underground if you weren't careful. I have no idea why! Why that would be. Like I'm in... a daze?
[Anyway... He begins to shift to tasks he'd been performing, still using the moons as an anchor for his vision during his recall.]
My usual upkeep. Odd jobs. Night life... Oh! Did you know that theater laws are being eased up?? [For this, he drags his attention to Emet-Selch with a brightness. Then, a hint of smugness.] Go figure, that such a welcome change would pass a vote... immediately after I was arrested and charged for performance!! I think they were rightly charmed by me. Yes... performance will be allowed, as long as no magic is involved. Strictly. So I've been looking into that, obviously.
[Live Mettaton's life.]
no subject
And it was sort of interesting to hear what Mettaton had been getting himself into. Those sorts of trivial, mundane (sort of mundane) details of another person's life... were something he never really took much of an interest in. Was this another aspect of caring about someone?]
You were arrested? I thought the city unusually quiet for a time. Good to know it wasn't my imagination.
[There's no concern in his tone, only mild amusement, and perhaps curiosity. Of all the things to get arrested for- putting on an illegal show seemed... entirely in keeping with him. In both the nature of the crime and the flaunting of the rules themselves.
Their pace is relatively slow, unhurried. Emet-Selch doesn't think to make any attempt to pick up any quicker of a stride to match whatever Mettaton would be likely to possess on his own, though it's not as funereal of a speed as it could be. And the night air was nice, for the first time in what felt like years; there wasn't any hint left of the bite from Winter. A very solid Spring's evening, darkening to an equally as pleasant night. Lit and guided by moonlight, the city settling down around them- it was almost romantic.
Though theatre being unbanned was... good news, of sorts. The Ascian liked theatre, actually; it had been one of the few positive ventures he'd supported in Garlemald.]
What manner of shows do you intend on producing? Are they all so-- [Trashy and bizarre, he doesn't say, thinking back to what he'd witnessed through repeated journeys through Mettaton's mirror. Emet-Selch had certainly had spent a lot of time in there, consuming as much of his history as he could, for all that it had been weirdly focused on what seemed like a very short period.] I caught a few glimpses of various performances through your mirror. They were certainly... distinct.
no subject
He wonders which of his shows he saw. He leans, the whole of him. Not just his ears.]
You did?? Yes... Distinct is a word I might apply to myself. [He'd turn "trashy and bizarre" into compliments too, somehow.] I can only hope that, if anyone else got to my mirror before we did... that they, too, were treated to my overwhelming stage presence.
[The chances of him seeing the ones with Frisk in them feel slim, since that happened all in like... a period of a few hours, at most. Those ones tested his patience a little, even if he found it in himself to have fun with them. (Not to say any of his regular programming is less bizarre. Or trashy.)]
Here... I want to finally focus on performance, rather than tapping into my talents as an anchor or a host. Not to say I won't do either of these... But they're a bit TV-specialized, ha-ha.
[He raises a finger, ears finally resuming a more pleasant, tall posture in his recollection. He gestures as he speaks, animated and lively merely at the recollection of doing something he fancied as exciting and worth his time. One of the first, and last, times he's gotten to perform with so many people... It was truly his element, he feels, and his energy for it is effusive.]
A few months back, Amadeus - a friend of mine, and a composer - held an opera under Parliament's nose, in the Grand Melodia Theater... and it went over splendidly. I'd like to do more of that. His was an obvious commentary upon the nature of Monster and Human, especially after what we'd seen in Dorchacht. The protagonist was an outsider, intended to represent a Monster. He was treated to the horror of what his kind endured in this city of "Canaries" and "Hawks," blind to the dangers that awaited him simply for being. To stay out of harm's way, the heroine had to teach him how to act... But she soon realized how oppressive her people's restrictions were against his kind.
Anyway. That's what I want to do! Naturally, I bring my own flair to the ordeal... But Amadeus likes that in me.
[is it possible for mettaton's act to go over well?? maybe... if his role is dictated by somebody who knows what they're DOING...]
no subject
But since he had been paying attention, he still wasn't entirely sure what to make of Mettaton pretending to harm a human child, before progressing to ineffectually attempting to kill them. He wasn't about to judge him for it, but it had been a little surprising nonetheless.]
It's always possible... and for what it's worth, the only record of your prior self that I witnessed was the one I saw in your presence. And I did make repeated attempts.
[So who knows, maybe the mirror was merciful and only permitted a ghost-memory when Mettaton was there to allow it? That it was otherwise aligned with his desire to keep that part of himself hidden. Why not raise those futile hopes a little.... Also, unashamedly admitting to traipsing through his mirror as though he had any right to its contents. Which he did, because Mettaton was his, memories and all.
Glancing sideways at him, Emet-Selch watches his clear enthusiasm for this subject of performance. And while the idol was generally enthusiastic, or at the very least, excessively optimistic and positive- it was also obvious that this was something of particular interest and value. And while he had no idea how anyone could be so enthusiastic about anything, it wasn't a bad thing to bear witness to, at least in small bursts.
And that Mettaton seemed to be interested in proper theatre rather than just his surreal TV-programming was of slight relief. Or at least, it was something that the Ascian wouldn't mind watching for its own sake.]
Hmm... I must've missed this forbidden production, though I've heard mention of it. A pity I didn't see it- if I was even in the city at the time. Still, there shall be other opportunities. And your current form certainly gives you more options when it comes to expression.
[As sturdy as his box self was, and as nicely as it could be dressed, his EX body did have a number of advantages when it came to acting.]
no subject
...It isn't to say that Emet-Selch wouldn't be the best person to receive them, however. But even considering that comes with a sort of self-consciousness, and it would unsettle him somewhat to imagine Emet-Selch standing before him again prior to having a body, where he couldn't be there to... uselessly gauge his reaction? Know exactly how he was seeing him and when? Mettaton's not sure what difference it makes, so it's ruled as illogical. ...He'd tolerate it, he decides. He'd have to surrender to that, given what he's already permitted the Ascian to have, which is the whole of him.
The comfort he feels has Mettaton reaching for Emet-Selch's hand, especially as he remarks upon the differences between his forms. That, too, gets Mettaton to light up. ...Not the kind of lighting he does when his face is a monitor with light-up squares. Rather, the kind where he smiles wide enough for it to reach his eye.
But reaching for his hand also just felt situationally appropriate, to Mettaton, who is very in tune with how romantic this feels. He just feels romantic toward his Bonded in general, however.]
There shall. We had to be a bit more secretive about it than we'd like... For obvious reasons. Not anymore! [With his free hand, he touches his own cheek as his gaze softens again.] I'm glad you're attuned to the wonders my new body yields me, anyway. I waited too long for this manner of expressiveness for it to go unappreciated. I think I can better connect with my audience in this way... But I also feel better than ever, like this.
[It's a nuance that he felt only mattered to him. It's precisely what draws him to the human form, after all.
... He chooses deliberately to avoid thinking about the insinuated future of the Underground Papyrus told him about, where he came from. Based on his second-hand account, he feels his popularity suffered among monsters for trying to exhibit this favored form. Mettaton wonders what he would've done. What he did do, in Papyrus's suggestion of events...
Mirrors. Mettaton pulls that finger from his cheek and opens his mouth, closes it, then fixes his gaze on Emet-Selch again.]
I saw more of yours, too, by the way. Memories. [A glance away. Then, back at Emet-Selch.] You have a grandson?! ...Who shot you. I don't know why this surprises me as much as it does. But. Wow. Talk about dramatic... And it was quite terrifying to behold. Even though I knew you weren't dead... if you stand before me today.
no subject
Mettaton's vibrancy in regards to his theatrical future, his relief at the possibility that the secrets of his past might have gone unwitnessed by all others: it's all open and so easily visible, and moreover, easily felt, a shadow of it through the Bond, feelings completely alien in alignment.
...Being close to someone sure involved a whole lot of unsettling emotions. Though he was far less in tune with the romantic nature of much of anything, it did strike Emet-Selch as a sentimental moment, which puzzled him faintly. They weren't doing anything particularly special.
Mettaton's satisfaction with his human-shaped body was an understandable reaction; it was a substantial improvement over the last, which in itself was an improvement over not having a body at all. But to finally be able to express more and more as he wanted, to interact with the world on terms he found the most agreeable- it was no wonder that he was pleased with himself. ...While Emet-Selch would certainly love him regardless, were he reduced back to a rectangle, his current form was definitely the Ascian's preference.
Having his own mirror brought up has him glancing towards his Bonded again, not particularly surprised. Hearing that Mettaton had returned to it didn't bother him either; what did he have to hide from him? If anything, he would've been slightly offended if the idol hadn't gone back for another look. But as for what he saw, that gets an amused hum at his reaction. What an odd memory to get, though, something so recent and trivial.]
What a petty man... he knew entirely well he couldn't kill me that way.
[An idle scorn is more than evident in his tone; his disdain for his grandson seems greater than it is towards the average mortal, and he makes no attempt to hide it. Even being shot is clearly considered more of a nuisance, a sign of the man's childishness, rather than any kind of mortal insult. Not that having a body killed was pleasant, but he's gone through it thousands of times before, to no ill effect. He didn't change hosts often enough for it to become a detriment.
Returning to an earlier part of Mettaton's commentary, he hums again, more lightly as he replies.]
Ah yes- I've sired any number of children over the years, for one purpose or another. This host in particular has produced two... Varis being the offspring of the elder.
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.]
no subject
I'll grant you that it's not pleasant, but there's worse ways to lose any individual body. He couldn't even get creative.
[Not that he would've been given any opportunity for such schemes, but that won't keep Emet-Selch from criticizing Varis for it anyway. The two really detested each other. And it wasn't as though Varis didn't have ample enough reason for it; with his father dying while still young, then growing up with his grandfather (who's emperor, half-revered as a god by their people, who founded their very nation--) absolutely detesting him for reasons he never, ever understood.
And then he came back from the 'dead' to disrupt everything he knew about their empire and the world itself. Varis had plenty of reasons to resent him, none of which Emet-Selch cared for in the slightest.
The line of questioning draws Mettaton another quick glance in his direction, before returning to fix his gaze on the path ahead of them, without really much seeing it. He's not surprised at the curiosity, and he absently rubs at the side of his lover's hand with his thumb as he thinks on it. This was all considerably personal, and more than he'd given out before. More than he'd consider giving to anyone else, he imagines.]
On occasion, there was one or another that I disliked less than most. A momentary fondness- perhaps I even felt some sort of hope for them. But they died, forgotten to all others, any change they wrought easily undone, and efforts lost. Mistakes to the last, and ones I grew better at not repeating.
[But without complete success. A smaller pause; being reminded of Varis calls to mind the last time he'd made the error of getting even a little attached to some transitory family.]
--The first son this body produced. [Emet-Selch never thought of any of his children as his. Only his host's. Sometimes, it was something he had to remind himself of, as with this one.] I thought... [His brows knit for a moment, a more unsure frown crossing his expression.] I don't know what I thought. But I didn't mislike him, from the time he was born.
[Why? It wasn't as though that child had been a person at that point. There was no personality or character there to get attached to, and yet--]
Excessively tall and fair, even by Garlean standards, he didn't much take after myself nor my wife. [A small sigh, and he waves the whole thing off with his free hand.] And then he died, succumbing to some absurd illness when he was around twenty. But not before leaving behind a record of his existence.
[A living record of that momentary weakness.]
--Varis looks quite like him.
[And he would never forgive him that.]
no subject
And yet, Mettaton still categorizes mortal and immortal lives differently. Not as one being superior over the other, just... regarded differently. He scarcely sees any issue with the eventual end of a mortal.
But Emet-Selch's not done, and he expected as much. He is an emotional sort. His ears both bend now, picking up on each peculiarity. This body, as though it's not his own. He can understand, he supposes... Although Emet-Selch expressed that he customized this form to his liking. It should be his body, no matter which he takes.
So Varis's father was a person he favored, taken from him far too soon. Someone who he'd grown fond of, which is a sweet thought: Mettaton finds himself smiling, never having known the other kinds of people who claimed a part of the Ascian's heart. (Mettaton decides that any of his various bodies are his, if he keeps them. Therefore, it's his son.) He wonders if Emet-Selch feels as though everyone he loves is taken from him prematurely, and it imbues Mettaton with remorse on his behalf.
Here, he was the one thinking about how mortal lives are just like this. Now he turns around and pities him for their susceptibility.
Mettaton closes his eye fleetingly, trusting his step to keep him from tripping.]
So he resembled Varis... He was tall. Light, long hair. ...Though I'm only beginning to understand why he appeared older than you. Something about you having bodies made up for you. [That's why he was able to reappear with a duplicate, Mettaton finally realizes. (Another implication: he saw more than one memory with Varis present.
A beat, and Mettaton does a shrug with his free arm.]
You don't have to know why you felt the way you did, darling. Feelings don't make sense! Even if they go against your regular world view. To think that someone could be taken so easily by illness... I can hardly imagine it. But. Even if you had only so short a time with him... You bear his memory.
[As Mettaton suggested, they're closing in on the former "center" of the Aristocratic district, which has now been overtaken by The Haven. The houses grow larger here, senselessly. The kinds with ballrooms and columns, excessive unless someone really had like a party of eight or more. He seems to veer in a direction toward one of them, one that has most of the lights out. (Definitely not a choice of Mettaton's: he'd stupidly leave lights on, always.)]
I'm glad to hear about him. That you'd care about him enough to share your fondness of him with me...
[After all, he's sure there might be more than Varis's father. In the end, that's who Emet-Selch chose to talk about.
When they approach the house, Mettaton produces a key. For some reason, unlocking doors is no problem in this specific incident. Would that he could treat all people's houses to the same decency as he does to his own. (The real modifier here is that he has a key to it... SO important.)]
no subject
It was nothing particularly strong. A lapse of judgement, nothing more.
[A flaw of unwanted sentimentality that he seemed cursed to keep repeating, on targets no more appropriate or lasting. Oh, he could well agree that feelings didn't make sense. If they did, he would've long since reasoned his way out of them. It would've made the passage of time far easier, a duty performed with the appropriate distance and detachment. Never tempted by those brief and shallow lives he was forced to surround himself with.
The other Ascians were not quite so conflicted. While they all disparaged mortals, they didn't despise or resent them to the same degree as Emet-Selch. They also didn't make the mistake of getting at all attached to any of them.
Distracted briefly by thinking back on Mettaton's first statement, he's both unsurprised that the idol had apparently gone for yet another memory, while bewildered as to why he received yet another recent one with Varis, of all people. It wasn't a moment of particular importance, though it would be the last time he'd ever be on the Source. He'd never return from the First....
Which was a thought he didn't particularly want to have (but when did that matter), and he shakes his head at it as he continues.]
But if you've seen that much... yes, Varis was experimenting with the science of cloning, using my original host's remains as a subject. [A light shrug, waiting as Mettaton unlocks the door to his own house (So this is property he's unwilling to damage with a kick, Emet-Selch makes a mental note of. He's also thoroughly unsurprised as to the particular district that Mettaton has decided to grace with his presence.).] The results provided me with a surplus of empty vessels, all at my current apparent age. Although- technically, this particular shell isn't even one of those.
[Might as well explain the rest, he supposes....]
The travel between Source and shard can only be done by soul alone. Though the Exarch found a way around that for our dear heroes... [A continued mystery to him and source of vexation; with another frown he forces himself back on subject.] On my arrival on the First without flesh of my own, I took over some unfortunate at random, molding him into this more familiar shape.
no subject
He'd gathered as much about this cloning business, wondering just how many bodies existed in there for Emet-Selch's taking. Enough to jump to them at a moment's notice, he considers, as he pulls open the door and guides Emet-Selch into the dim lobby of the house, lit only by wayward lights from whatever remains down a flanking corridor. Pulling the door shut behind him, he's stricken with the news that this body... somehow isn't one of the products of cloning, but rather, of taking a body and manipulating it to his will. He analyzes it in the low light, but he doesn't really need to. He's already studied him many times before.]
That much ability to alter your form... Such talent. You look just as you did standing before Varis. Haha... You fill me with envy, you know.
[To punctuate this envy, Mettaton takes his free hand and graces his fingers along Emet-Selch's cheek in admiration.
Envy? Mettaton's not lying: he feels envious, but it's not a caustic sort that burns him and Emet-Selch in the process. There's jealousy, but it's more awe and intrigue in his Bonded's ability to not only jump from organic host to host, but the ability to subsequently customize its shape so thoroughly! ...And for as much as Mettaton loves humanity, it's another one of those situations where he feels that a human's life could be spent on housing himself. (Whoops.) Would that he could take on human hosts, only to manipulate them into the perfect image of himself! (Two reasons he'd kill a human: to save humanity, and to achieve a perfect body, apparently.)
But, that's neither here nor there. Impossibility beyond even what he's already achieved, nothing even dreaming could manage. He's more than satisfied with his robotic body, he decides.
It's still impressive that Emet-Selch's current form is the spitting image of the one he saw him with in all other instances, prior to arriving before... the Exarch, and the gaggle of "heroes," none of who were completely recognizable to him. Some of them, he thought he'd seen before, but only traces of.
Yes... another memory consumed. The only awareness he has of the Exarch, really.]
But I imagine it must take something out of you. Molding it to perfection. Clones would make the process far easier. I can see the benefit. Fewer lives taken, which is an added bonus!
[...To Mettaton!
The lights in this house are lit, which yields... a living room within sight, decorated in an expensive, formal-looking black couch, one that surprisingly predates Mettaton's stay here. Some of the furniture comes from previous residents, but none of them had taste objectionable to Mettaton. The overall colors of this room are of blacks and dark greys, with accents of red or, heaven forbid, magenta. Of course. The couch has such bright cushions on it, with the addition of some black, lacy ones... From a distance, it might be difficult to tell, but they've been chewed on by somebody. Not naming names or anything. It's as "modern"-appearing as it can be, given the setting — just the way Mettaton sees style, while Aefenglom's idea of it lags in floral print hell sometimes.
But Mettaton unhands Emet-Selch to let him have the house.]
Upstairs are the rooms. Most of which I also furnished. [Because this is what he does with his money.] Would you like to go there, darling?
no subject
The low light of the entranceway isn't particularly dimmer than the outside, so it takes little adjustment for Emet-Selch to take in as much as he could of the lobby, before being distracted by the touch to his face, glancing back up to Mettaton at the contact and the comment. Raising an eyebrow at the mention of envy, but- well, he wasn't about to deny the advantages such a skill had brought him.]
Hm, it is a convenient trick, isn't it? But quite tiring, you're right about that. [Lives taken was Not An Issue.] Though with your burgeoning shapeshifting ability, surely you'll be able to match me for it in time. Honestly- [And at this, he fixes Mettaton with an accusatory look- though not a wholly serious one.] I was learning transfiguration for your sake. If I'd known a puca's native talents would leave it redundant, I would've spent the time studying something more useful.
[It's not a field Emet-Selch would've bothered with otherwise. He sighs, even as they pass into the living room, a space where the lights remained lit and he could make out further detail of the house. Stepping into it slowly, approaching it like an animal being released into its new territory, he takes a brief, meandering look around.
The decor was decidedly less garish than he'd expected. Being surprised by that, Emet-Selch supposes, was probably unfair of him. Though not what he would've picked out, the room that Mettaton had taken upon himself to develop for him had been fine. So why wouldn't Mettaton's own house follow similar patterns of acceptable taste? It wasn't as though the Ascian was opposed to accents of color, and the splashes of red (or red-adjacent) in this living area kept it from looking too dull or cold. Aesthetic choices he could accept without issue (though the oddly-damaged pillows were... odd).
But it's soon enough that he completes his small exploratory foray, returning to Mettaton's side and regarding him again.]
You can show me the rest. 'Tis certainly a lot of space for one person.
[Not a criticism, just a comment.]
no subject
[He'd been wondering about his note-taking on magic. It was an idle enough curiosity to never feel inclined to inquire upon it. But it leaves him stunned enough that he needs to take a moment to digest this information as he watches Emet-Selch roam, his mind wandering along the lines of his study of transfiguration on his behalf, something he doesn't appear interested in for any other purpose. His mind is quite vivid in its imagination of the whole process, and he suddenly remembers some sort of demand to know why he hadn't demonstrated his capability for shapeshifting before the first time he demonstrated his... trick. He doesn't remember the phrasing clearly — after all, he was a bit Distracted.
So it takes him a moment to recover, flattered and charmed by the effort. He can only imagine how delighted he'd be if he couldn't change the composition of his body on his own. As Emet-Selch returns to him, he waits with a finger pressed over his smile, arm folded over his middle in his satisfaction. He finds it thoughtful, worth all the love he feels for him at the attempted gesture, to know that he has someone who would go through the effort to alter his body further to his perfect liking.
He feels determined to show him his own attempts at practice now. ...Though there's a level of brief unease that washes over him at the prospect. A new development, and it's not insecurity. Unease. Something's gone wrong in his shapeshifting practice, but he'll get to that later.
The robot doesn't take any part of Emet-Selch's speech as criticism, not from the accusatory look to the spaciousness of his chosen residence. The house is a frivolous and convenient inclination on his part, but the reason for his delay in shapeshifting is more complicated. Mettaton nods.]
Yes. Oh! The kitchen is over there... [A point in the direction of it. It's out of sight, but it's one of the fancy houses that people might expect to hire chefs for. Mettaton hasn't quite gotten to that level of excessiveness yet. As for its fixings, there's primarily food that Papyrus eats, food that Mettaton doesn't need to eat but eats anyway, and attempts at cooking. On both of their parts. Dubious attempts with a hit-or-miss in the realm of success (with far more misses), Papyrus's only saved by some guidance from Toriel. Mettaton's? Well... he was surprised at how bad he actually was at cooking, and has remained surprised ever since.] But anyway.
[Upstairs, then. Mettaton doesn't feel he needs to tell Emet-Selch that he has free reign of the place — after all, it's the unspoken truth that what's Mettaton's should also be his, and vice versa. Emet-Selch knows that. As most of the upper area is where any personal quarters are, Mettaton takes this moment to raise a finger.]
I don't live on my own, by the way. I have one housemate... He was quite lonely, by himself. [as if implying that mettaton gave him the grace of moving in with him...] Papyrus. He's a monster, like me... And a Turnskin, here in Aefenglom. I mentioned him to you, I recall. He's chatty. Charming and friendly. Amusing, too... You'll surely meet him, but he keeps himself busy with this or that. Just like I do!
[Friendly and charming, said as a compliment to him with a subdued laugh. Mettaton finds his company pleasant, that much is evident through and through. He's mostly gotten over any residual Rathrmore-based fear of him, far more easily than he could with most. It's hard to find Papyrus scary forever, even if he still freezes up sometimes if he starts getting growly as the full moons close in... It's fine. Mettaton can deal.]
He seems much happier having somebody with my presence living with him! Spacious as it is, I have a way about filling a room. Or, a building.
no subject
Though he wasn't entirely sure why (as it hadn't amounted to anything useful in the end), Mettaton looked as though he appreciated his intent- and because he did, that in and of itself made the whole thing feel worthwhile. A strange response to aborted practice. Regardless, he was curious as to how far the idol would be able to go with his shapeshifting powers; what he'd already seen was surely not the limit of it. A thought that has him brush against him as they head towards the stairs, though he spares a look and a nod in the direction of the rumored kitchen.
But it wouldn't come as much of a surprise to Emet-Selch to find that Mettaton was poor at the art of food preparation. Why wouldn't he be? When would he have ever gotten to practice (neverminding that absurdity of a cooking show)? Ghosts and robots didn't or couldn't eat, and however it worked now was something the Ascian didn't particularly care to question. But this would be one household that he wouldn't be raiding for free meals. Would he ever bother to use the kitchen otherwise? Who knows... if anything held him back, it'd be a lack of interest rather than shyness. Everything in this house was his, by virtue of it also being Mettaton's. They both knew that.
The mention that Mettaton had a housemate gives him pause, but he continues momentarily (though he's briefly annoyed that his Bonded hadn't thought to bring this up before). Still, with as large as this place was, did it matter? Emet-Selch had survived a smaller space with three others, and up until recently, it had been something he had faced with a grudging toleration. The identity of said housemate gets more of a frown, and a thoughtful sort of hum, unsure of what he thought about that.]
We've spoken, if only over the network. A loud sort, even in writing. I would hope that doesn't translate elsewhere.
[His hopes were not very high. Still, Emet-Selch didn't particularly dislike him, based on his limited impression of him. An obnoxious, but harmless type. But was everyone from that world excessively optimistic...? It was probably premature to judge a population by two members of it, but he was prepared to do so anyway.]
But I'm unsurprised a sociable sort like him would find your dubious company agreeable. I've no doubt you could fill half the city with your presence if you tried.
[And he says it like it's a bad thing. Emet-Selch also remains under the impression that this was Mettaton's house originally and Papyrus was clearly invited to stay with him, rather than the other way around.]
no subject
[A correction he adds with a sort of cocky smirk. Onto addressing Papyrus.]
I'm glad you two have already met! Even if over the network. Yes... He's been a long-time fan of mine. How flattering, to now share space with me. But I think he'll like you, Hades-darling.
[No commentary on how loud Papyrus is. Mettaton doesn't notice anything of the sort, but that's because he's no doubt louder, or otherwise immune. Or otherwise distanced, in this spacious house. Or otherwise not home. It's particularly around full moons that things get stupid... Because Monsters get stupid. Mettaton acknowledges this with some mild chagrin.
The lingering sensation of his Bonded having brushed against him sets Mettaton on the course toward his own room, deciding concretely that he wants to take him in there. As he walks, he gestures with both palms out toward the whole of the hallway.]
Any of these rooms can be yours, at your choosing, sweetheart. Any time! For as long as you'd like. I'm sure there's one you'll find acceptable...
[No pressure to stay, but the invitation to stake claim to the space in a house that could, occasionally, get noisy (and very full of Mettaton), is there.
(For when he gets the chance to take the house for himself, there's a room adjacent to his own that Mettaton has decorated in deep navy blues, dark all around but with the warmth of a hint of gold — choices Mettaton picked to trade his into his Bonded's room as a retroactive correction to customize it to his tastes. But he felt it could wait. And the decor put to use, in the meantime. Now it could be his, only here?)
But Mettaton doesn't point to any room in particular at the moment, instead guiding Emet-Selch to his own. He turns his attention to his Bonded expectantly.]
But right now, I want you in mine.
[Beckoning him to follow, Mettaton's ears are tall yet relaxed. He'll close the door behind him once he enters.
The impression of color is surprisingly not pink. (He can change it to whatever he wants at any time.) Instead, it's purples and golds — and plenty of each, its angle something regal, if not over-the-top. Therefore, it's appropriately Mettaton.
The idol's room is well-kept with far more personal effects than anything Emet-Selch has, a lot of his inclinations leaning toward finery and objects that sparkle. A room for a person who is vain, complete with a full-body mirror. (All the better to admire himself with.) Gemstones and jewelry aren't things he wears for just any occasion, but he possesses it nonetheless, both for wearing and for mere display. He is both Mettaton, and a Puca. An open closet betrays a growing collection of fashion (and it leans ostentatious or crisp and sophisticated), some of which are intended to fit any configuration of his bodies, plus more... normal human-shaped attire. Some books, any indication at all that Mettaton reads sometimes, though the majority of them appear to be fiction. (There's one thick one on the mechanics of Bonding, as authored by a Witch from the Coven.) What else is he to do without TV and without sleep??
(...There's a bin full of chewed pen-shaped objects. Absolutely decimated, and not by the Turnskin in the house. Mettaton would rather that not be noticed.)]
no subject
But an expectation of following is fine with him, moving into Mettaton's space and finding it to be extremely him (even with the lack of pink). If not excessive to the point of tastelessness, it left an impression, and that impression was very Mettaton. And much like with the downstairs, Emet-Selch takes a small roam around the place, taking the measure of this new bit of territory as well.
Sorry, Mettaton, he does notice that bin of incredibly chewed-up pen-shaped detritus, though apart from a very low hum he doesn't comment on it or allow his gaze to linger on it for too long. An easy thing to do, considering how much else the room consisted of. The small details, the things that glittered from any number of directions. The books which stood out by not glittering and also by existing at all- though considering the city's lack of more modern entertainments, he supposed that even the idol might be reduced to having to read something, now and again, to pass the time.
But despite it all, the room didn't feel disordered or cluttered, or a demonstration of hording without intent. This was a place of someone who took care in their surroundings, rather than merely existed within them, which he supposed he could appreciate.]
For someone who doesn't require clothes, you've certainly gained a collection.
[Far, far more than anything the Ascian possessed, though that wasn't difficult. Shaking his head, he returns to stand in front of him, regarding Mettaton in the same way as his room, tone low and a touch amused.]
Do you even use half of all this...?
[It was another choice of living that was foreign to him, to collect things for the sake of the collection, for the display.]
no subject
Why does it matter? I like it all. Just as I like to be handsomely dressed.
[Simple as that, because Mettaton's rhyme and reason is to surround himself in things that appeal to his senses, which he's gained more and more of. New appreciations for things, such as touch and smell, yielding to him a preference for certain textiles or the smells of one candle over another. All of these things are things he'll take for himself.
...With such a careful eye for detail, a very troubling aspect of this room might be noticed. There's a spot on the rug for all that he tried to clean it, its fibers a color light enough for it to show. Blood. Mettaton doesn't bleed. The environmental storytelling continues: there's another book that isn't fiction. In fact, it's a text of Aefenglom's understanding of human-and-monster anatomy-physiology. Its spine is turned away from view, however. If it all escapes the Ascian's notice, it's just as well: Mettaton will likely talk about it.
what... what are you doin in here, mettaton...?
Standing before him, Mettaton smiles at him and reaches to press his fingertips to Emet-Selch's chest. His attention rakes up to meet his eyes, taking him in and enjoying his tone of voice.]
It must shock you. To find yourself in someone's space who enjoys possessions as much as I do. I wouldn't take anything in here that I didn't fancy, beautiful.
[As if Emet-Selch is among those things, even though he's a person, not a glittering diamond. His fingertips become his entire palm, a smooth transition into feeling him up again. As one does.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)