[Both the delay and Mettaton's eventual decision don't surprise him. This was an aspect of his life that he was fiercely, fiercely protective of; a matter of identity that couldn't be soothed or eased with a few words of reassurance. For someone so generally confident to be so discomforted by something- it filled the Ascian with an annoying amount of sympathy. He didn't like knowing he was shaken, and would be likely to remain so until this was solved. Who wouldn't be unsettled, to have information worth protecting falling into the hands of someone who didn't care?
He wondered distantly if would've gone better if Mettaton had some choice in the matter, if it were his decision to tell, to provide only the detail he decided on. And the Ascian thought it might, yet at the same time- that would inherently still be a choice under duress, wouldn't it? Emet-Selch couldn't imagine him volunteering anything unless the alternative was even worse.
Mettaton's slow reveal of information to himself, though... yes, he supposed that was probably the closest to a voluntary affair. And that was only because he'd guessed at the robot's nature on his own, rather than needing told or finding out elsewhere. And with that starting point, Mettaton had been able to disclose more about himself at his own pace, more or less. A sharing of selves....
While he doubted the man would've wanted him to ever see what he had... the opportunity had only come about after trust had been built. And Mettaton could have refused him, and Emet-Selch would've listened (even if it would've damaged his own trust of him, to be denied).
Control of the information, he thought- that was probably crucial. Not being in the same category as humanity probably helped as well. In the presence of another ghost... there was less need for a facade. Emet-Selch felt the same way, after all.]
If that's the case....
[It's something he has to think a moment on himself. But the conclusion arrives quickly. There could really be only one choice in the end.]
Should such an outcome come about, regardless of all our efforts- there's no one here I would refuse to act upon. That much, at least... you may be assured of.
[That's not to say there weren't those he would hesitate with. Or that he wouldn't regret the necessity of it, perhaps. But it wouldn't stop him. He'd done far worse things for the sake of people he cared for.]
[It doesn't take long for Emet-Selch to give him a reply, a moment's worth of time, but he's taken by the watch and waiting for what Emet-Selch's thoughts are on that. His dedication should be expected, but it warms Mettaton's heart for the other man all the same. A mutual protectiveness and care, an attribute that ought to be present alongside love. He smiles.
Reaching out to Emet-Selch was the right choice, not that there was any other path he would have taken. He trusts him wholly.]
Having you to confide in... and to rely on. I feel better. Immeasurably. You know just how to ease my worries, dearest. I could kiss you.
[Onlookers watching this liberally reclining Puca and his leaning ears as he regards his device with a relieved grin and fixed attention probably think he's messaging a crush, with how totally absorbed he is by the device. They're right. Would That They Knew The Subject Matter, However.
The problem has yet to be solved. That much is true. But Emet-Selch's willingness to help Mettaton, no matter who should come into possession of his history in the future, is an immense relief in a city as precarious as Aefenglom. Who knew what sorts of spells or situations existed that might expose him? Yet with Emet-Selch to help him, he could feel secure in knowing that he'd be taken care of.
A thought strikes the robot. A curiosity he'd never addressed, surprisingly.]
You yourself very quickly admitted to me that you're an Ascian, though in description rather than in word. Do you prefer to keep that secret, here in Aefenglom? I imagine it was a necessity to keep it secret where you're from... Given the reactions I saw humans have to you.
[Twice... Well, Varis already knew, obviously. (He didn't appreciate it. Violence happened.) But there was the time he introduced himself as an Ascian, and all hackles were raised then. (They didn't appreciate it either. There was tension that could be cut with Thancred's readied blade.) Perhaps it has something to do with trying to usher in their demise...]
[Is there anything more romantic than one's beloved being willing to learn and perform Questionable Magics for their sake? Even if it meant going against the rest of the world and all within it? Surely not... surely anyone would agree to this.
But it was... good, to know that he'd been able to provide Mettaton some relief from that unsettled state he'd been in during the past few days. That he'd been able to do that for him with just a few words- was nice. And yet the Ascian's own look is a bit sad, and something he only permits himself because he's in private; he's not sure if he'll ever get used to being afforded the chance to have a positive effect on someone he cared for.]
I'm sure you could. Alas, 'tis a physical impossibility.
[Not being in the same location... is probably the only way they can keep their hands off each other.
The accompanying question comes as a slight surprise, but given the context of their conversation, he supposed it made sense. Unlike Mettaton, though, he didn't have any particular issues when it came to being a ghost-like entity. Though it was true that he didn't usually go out of his way to volunteer it, yet he had with the robot.... Still, facing the likelihood of death, keeping a detail like that to himself had felt pointless. Mettaton had incorrectly labeled him as a human, and he'd seen no reason not to correct him at the time.]
Here, 'Ascian' is not a word that would mean much of anything to anyone, save to those from my star. And when it comes to them, most already know what I am. But even at home, our existence is not common knowledge, and apart from a handful of individuals who attempt to track our activities, we remain an unknown.
As for a more practical description of my nature, in this place, I don't offer it to everyone, but nor do I specifically hide it. I've no particular identity to maintain here. And with no relevant abilities to speak of... what I used to be capable of is of little relevance.
My name and Amaurot are all that I truly care to keep private.
[Even then, Mettaton considers telling Emet-Selch to just teleport to him. The temptation is there. What's a physical impossibility between them? It doesn't stand a chance, as far as Mettaton's concerned.
And then they wouldn't be able to stay off each other, and Mettaton's in a particularly summery mood that he'd scarcely care about anyone around him, and it would only devolve from there. A repeat of the Looking-Glass House, only worse... A part of Mettaton's mind is dedicated to this very thought and scenario, fantasies about kissing his Bondmate at the forefront. But he's also preoccupied with the conversation, the unfortunate distance, and the still-present worries about Soren that have been soothed, but not eliminated.]
Amaurot too... I assumed as much. And now I know with certainty, what you consider classified.
[As chatty as Mettaton is, there are two things about him that have kept him from talking much about Emet-Selch to others, from inane details to matters of what he is or where he comes from. The first: Mettaton loves to talk about himself, particularly his capabilities and beauty (and not about his past, thank you). The second: nobody has really asked about his personal life, and Mettaton doesn't readily offer it without being pressed. Emet-Selch constitutes part of his personal life, as his Bonded and his lover.
Rereading, he registers that Emet-Selch has no identity to preserve here. He wonders what it must be like to be like him, caring so little whether or not somebody found out that he was an entity who lost his body and assumed a new one for a lack of one. That he's otherwise incorporeal. Aefenglom's general attitude toward the spectral is wary, and Mettaton dislikes the thought of a human treating him with wariness and concern, or worse. Emet-Selch, on the other hand, he could believe caring less for how others regarded him.
There could have been a hint of progress toward being less fearful of others learning that he's a ghost, but it doesn't occur. He chalks it up to their differences in energy and demeanor. Mettaton has his own misgivings, besides.]
Well. What you consider important is safe with me. Although switching back to Emet-Selch is always a difficulty... I like your name too much. But I manage.
[It is a temptation, and the awareness of it still causes him to sigh, shaking his head at this recently-found insatiability on his own part. With how prone they both were to one another... he suspected that even the barest hint of privacy would lead to escalations. A progression from scandalous hand-holding to suspiciously intense kissing, to an inevitability of biting. And worse. They were fortunate to have gotten away with it once, but eventually even Mettaton's considerable luck would give out.
So he turns instead to the conversation, concerns for this new crisis in the back of his mind, along with a certain resoluteness regarding it.]
Then I will appreciate both your attempts at discretion, as well as your preference for my name. Even so- 'tis not the same as your protectiveness over your own history. While I would detest strangers knowing of mine, it's not to the point of needing to erase their memory of it.
[The difference between something being personal, and being mortifying, he supposed. Few had any right to his name or past, but it wasn't something he was specifically hiding. It was only a matter of who deserved to know. And those numbers were drastically limited.
By comparison, being a ghost was of significantly less concern. Keeping it to himself was more a matter of keeping most things to himself, rather than a spectral-nature specifically. It helped, certainly, that the Ascian had considerable disdain for humanity. Why would he be interested in the opinion of something so far beneath him? Whether it was fear or acceptance, neither was a result that he cared anything for.]
But what of you? Apart from the obvious... is there anything you'd wish to keep private?
[While Emet-Selch was considerably less distractable when it came to discussions about himself, no matter his own superiority, he also kept his personal life, well, personal. Given an appropriate question, he might deign to answer it, but there was no reason to volunteer anything. So though he had no interest in hiding anything (they'd certainly had public conversations on the network which would no doubt imply something about their relationship), he'd also had no reason to specifically bring up being Bonded to him to much of anyone.
Which had, perhaps, backfired a little when he hadn't cared enough to inform any of his other Bonded when he'd taken on a fourth, but, that was all in the past now.... Perhaps he might even have learned something from that.]
Your name didn't strike me as something to be upset about... Yes. It's because only special people deserve to know it. Understood.
[Which is very different from his own origin or history, which he'd prefer nobody knows unless they already do, without his intervention, but within his control. It's a very delicate subject and with Emet-Selch serving as his Bondmate, he scarcely sees any need for anyone else to know. It's not as if anyone would think to ask of such a specific scenario, he thinks.
On the other hand, having a name of preference plus a title slots in with the Ascian's preferences about the way he conducts himself. Truly, having been stripped of all that he regards as his, he can see why he'd hold close what's important to him. It's the reverse of the way Mettaton flaunts what he considers his, but because Mettaton only gained, while Emet-Selch only lost. ...It's saddening to think on.]
Let's see... Well, I'm not forthright about my original build. The one intended to win the king's favor. It's as you said, when I first told you that I was built as a human eradication robot. Humans might not like that! But if one of them learned, I'd manage it. For example... I have told Mira that I was built as a weapon first, among a few others. Not that it was to destroy humans, though. Haha.
I can't think of much else. Oh. My age. I have a story to uphold! I claim I'm several years old. Nine, I think. Yes. I believe I would be almost nine, to the public.
Robots, darling. They start out life precisely as programmed. There is another robot here... he's scarcely a year old. You wouldn't guess it.
[Imagine Mettaton trying to ensure that fellow robots do not perceive him as anything but. It's an ordeal, but he's an actor, even though he fails at understanding his own body where most androids are calculating and accurate... It's fine. He makes it work.
From his place remotely, Mettaton nearly jumps in his interested realization. More of the learning process about his Bonded, more details he'd love to know should he possess them.]
That reminds me! Do you have a birthday?? Even old men like you surely have a beginning, thousands of years back.
[He was very amused when Vanitas called him, endearingly, "old man."]
[It was something of a belated thing to realize, that with Mettaton so careful to present a specific persona to the world, that it would be useful to know a few details if, for whatever reason, Emet-Selch needed to give any. Fortunately it hadn't come up, and even if it had- well, it would've been easy enough to shrug and say that he honestly didn't know, and wouldn't it be better to ask Mettaton directly for his personal information...? He'd probably still do that regardless....
But still, useful information nonetheless. And when it came to a more explicit past- Emet-Selch rather liked being one of only two people here who knew of it, and would agree entirely that Mettaton didn't need to share this part of himself any further. The idol was protective of it, and the Ascian was possessive of it.]
Yes, I'm unsurprised that you've avoided mentioning your supposed purpose for construction. As unfitting as you seem to that cause, humans are foolish, their feelings capricious.
[Because it's completely irrational to be uneasy around a robot who self-discloses that he was specifically created to destroy humanity.
A robot would be made to perform a specific way... so presumably Mettaton's eccentricities could be written off as an intended part of his design. Or an accidental flaw in construction. Or even just a quirk in the rules governing robots on another world. Some places had magic, and some did not... and some had stranger robots than others. Even when facing other robots, he thought it shouldn't be too strange of a thing to manage.
Old men... that has Emet-Selch side-eyeing the watch a little, indeed reminded of Vanitas' term for him. Not that it wasn't fitting, he couldn't exactly pretend otherwise, especially from the perspective of a mortal. But it wasn't as though he was anywhere near the oldest in the Convocation....]
And of course I have a birthday, though it's not as if the turns of days were smoothly translated over when the world was broken. And this place is even further removed from that.
It was in the late Spring, I can give you that much.
[So thankfully just past any point of picking a day here and going with that.]
Do you remember your own? Assuming you have one, of course.
[With all else they knew of each other- more heavy topics than not- it struck him as almost quaint that they'd eventually reach inane details like this. Did ghosts even have birthdays? Was there any point in an immortal marking the span of years?]
I wouldn't mind mentioning it too much, darling. Capricious as they are... I'm sure they would understand in the end. Haha...
[Mettaton is far less worried about people knowing, but at least he's learned to act with a bit of discretion. Some people can know, others might not be a good idea. It wasn't as though it would be a surprise that his people would want to defend themselves... Or kill just a few humans...
More importantly, he's excited to have received a birthday from his Bonded. Late Spring? Good enough for Mettaton! It's likely the most helpful measure he could have, given how different he can imagine some worlds operate. Seasons may even be different, but at least there's an approximate springtime in Aefenglom. (Two springtimes, if the Wilde counts! Mettaton's greedy.) He spares a moment to regard passersby on Aefenglom's streets, noting their attire for warmth with the acknowledgement that Spring has sprung and it's onto Summer already.
This world may not be even remotely close to Emet-Selch's, but Mettaton decides late Spring is his.]
Late Spring. That's perfect. I'm surprised! Not because of the time of year. But because late Spring just passed!! Of course you wouldn't make any note of it. Next time, beautiful.
[He wonders when the last time was that he even celebrated a birthday. (Is that something he was ever accustomed to doing?) More years yet to add atop Emet-Selch's stacks of years. A cake with so many candles on it, it may as well just be a bonfire. A thing to get a fire permit for... Mettaton amuses himself with this thought, because he likes the thought of his Bonded having a birthday at all (and his own humor). The robot just has that kind of energy. Someone excitable about small details like this, and there may be more reasons yet for that, because-]
My birthday... is whenever I want it to be, of course. [So his is "picking a day and going with it".] I pick a month... and that's my birthday! [Oh, or... "picking a month and going with it."] Really though, I wasn't born, like most beings. I'm sure you could have guessed. I don't know where I came from. I just started being! Though I don't have a clue when...
[Seasons do not exist Underground. Neither does any indication of the passing of time, lunar nor solar. He easily realized that was why Monsters in the underground civilization never had to worry about going feral on the full moon, because it simply didn't apply.]
The day I started being a robot. That was late October — mid-Autumn. I'm sure you can imagine what month I favor... but I can have any of them, as I like.
[Really, humans kill so many other humans, a robot made to do so just means he should fit right in. What better claim to humanity was there?]
I'd honestly forgotten. I can't recall the last time I made any notice of it.
[Though it had been mostly from a lack of inclination, the differences between Source and shard didn't help. On some occasions time flowed at the same speed between them, at others a hundred years could pass on one in the space of a few months on another. Even though he spent the majority of his time on the Source, it would've been futile to keep track of something so arbitrary. And those years spent asleep in the void between spaces- how would those even count?
That Mettaton would've been likely to do something for it doesn't surprise him. And Emet-Selch can't deny either the sense of relief that he'd narrowly avoided the attention, or the dread of him doing something for it next year. Yet at the same time... he found he didn't disapprove of the idea as much as he thought he would. It would mean they would both still be here in a year. And how terrible it was, to have to mark time in such small increments, that a single passing year together would be a cause for celebration.
(And how could he ever consider it like that at all? How could he desire to stay, even if going home wouldn't save anyone--)]
I'd wondered how entities like yourself came about....
[What other way could naturally-occurring ghosts exist, he supposed, other than just... appearing one day. A soul spontaneously manifesting, wrapped up in a non-corporeal shell. Did all ghosts consider themselves 'cousins'? It wasn't as though they could be related in the normal sense, but their shared nature could lead to a closer natural tie than most families....
But he hums to himself, unsurprised that Mettaton didn't know the specific day he'd begun existing, or even the time of year. A life spent wholly underground would make denoting any passage of time far more difficult. No time of day, much less time of year- time itself would be a hypothetical.]
Though if you select too many months, then it stops being special, doesn't it? [The Ascian is even more Unsurprised to hear Mettaton apparently deciding to select a month (or several), rather than content himself with a mere day. It gets a sigh from him.] The point when you became a robot seems as reasonable a time as any.
My origins are a mystery even to me, yes. I'm a blessing unprecedented.
[Given how people everywhere regard ghosts, he's wondered if he is the product of something dead after all... Who knows. Regardless, he's living now, and that's all that really matters to him. If he was something else before, he doesn't remember it. He doesn't think about it too hard.
Mettaton hums in turn, likewise unsurprised that Emet-Selch cannot remember the last he'd regarded his own birthday. It's somehow predictable of him, even if it's still remarkable. To have a concrete birthday - or at least, the rough figure of one - and not to pay it mind is far from what the idol would do, space-time complications aside. To have gone so far as to neglect it, at that... It checks out with so much else the Ascian has neglected about himself, he thinks. Indeed, as Emet-Selch fears, he'll change that. His is a birthday that will go fully acknowledged at the next opportunity, be it within Aefenglom's city limits, or out in the Wilde. Mettaton's not picky.
He doesn't even consider Emet-Selch or himself not being here, because he's busy thinking about this conversation happening right now, and what it pertains to. About birthdays. About knowing Emet-Selch's, and more concretely deciding his own — particularly relevant now that the sun is a thing, and time flows with meaning beyond squares on a calendar and the hands of a clock. He instead dreams about ways to celebrate, closing his eye.]
Any birthday of mine is special. There's never too much of a good thing! It was something to be excited about! An occasion for everyone to celebrate. But I'm glad you agree with my primary choice.
Since you're inclined to forget, I'll be sure to remember for you, Hades, darling. It wouldn't be hard to remember. After all, we're practically opposites again! How lovely.
[Thinking about birthdays is a distraction from the knowledge that another Mirrorbound possesses unwanted knowledge about him. And wouldn't promise to keep it secret, the way Mettaton wants. His attention's on his Bonded.]
Edited (I Wrote "Forget" Instead Of "Remember") 2020-06-27 09:49 (UTC)
Oh, there's no need. Feel free to join me in forgetting mine- it's an occasion that bears no relevance to me. Especially now.
[Assuming his death was immutable, inescapable- it felt that much more pointless to keep track of the ticking over of days here. What good did that accomplish, existing past a point of expiration--
He shakes his head; that was the wrong direction for distraction. And Emet-Selch doubted that Mettaton has at all forgotten the doom that hangs over him, dragon-shaped and indifferent, and that the conversation now was equally about distraction as it was interest (though he supposes the interest part was still genuine, for some reason). But it was a glimmer of distraction that the Ascian didn't mind indulging in itself, as meaningless as the topic seemed to him. Even if it wouldn't be possible to relax entirely until the problem was solved, that would take some time; if he could provide some kind of break to that gnawing concern, that was all to the good.
But Spring to Autumn... all the things they had in opposite, from the notable to the mundane. And considering the seasonal inverse of the Wilde- opposites that could technically coexist at the same time. The Ascian is not going to mention this.]
It sounds as though you're used to having some manner of celebration. [An opportunity to celebrate... himself. Of course Mettaton would embrace every chance of it.] Is there anything you prefer to do for the... occasion, as lengthy as you might attempt to make it?
[Claiming a whole month- a whole season still struck him as absurd, but- gods help him, he'd probably have to get something for his Bonded. Mettaton seemed like the sort of person who would appreciate that, and he cared about him enough to take preferences like that into account. How annoying.
At least he had time to think about it, he supposed, sighing again.]
[Of course his sentiment would be such... Mettaton snorts at the suggestion to forget because it's not relevant to him, though he doesn't connect that reason to his future demise. Instead he connects it to his apathy for the world they inhabit, its laws surely different from where he comes from. He feels inclined once more to kiss him, because he feels even freer to remember it.
So he writes,]
Such liberty to do as I please... I may just take your birthday, then. Yes, I WILL celebrate it.
[Weirdly threatening for just saying "I'm going to celebrate your birthday whether you like it or not." It's also one of the things he feels like biting him for suddenly...
Mettaton does not view his thirst for blood to be tiresome or unwanted. He stares at very human-appearing passersby. The robot remembers when he could smell Mira in a particularly tense moment, how she was just a Witch to him for a fleeting moment that he can barely grasp...
And just as quickly, he banishes the thought. Really, other Witches don't smell like Emet-Selch. There's no reason he'd want their blood as much, logically. That he would ever pursue anyone else's was surely because he only wanted Emet-Selch's. And that makes it all slot comfortably into place, even as he watches two obviously practicing Witches walking by hand-in-hand, watches their skin, thinks of the taste that pulses underneath. Yes, Mettaton's distracted. For him, it's a manageable distraction to the tune of arousal on a body that shows no signs of it. Similarly, he shows the public no signs of his hunger unless there were a perceptive eye in the crowd.
He's just thinking of Emet-Selch bruised and bitten and in his arms. And thinking of him makes him keep reading. Then, of course, he's made to think of himself, given the subject matter.]
I am used to it. Yes. I would get plenty of fan correspondence... Letters, flowers, gifts. Tributes to my splendor. When you have a birthday before a crowd, that's the sort of reception you'd expect. An abundance of adoration foisted upon you... Haha.
[Mettaton is the kind of person who would say he got "so many cards that he couldn't read them all," but he definitely reads every last word. Nonetheless, there wasn't as much in the ways of celebrating from anyone he considered close during those times. So when he thinks of that, he has to dig deeper, and he stops thinking of Witch blood altogether. He stops listening to people conversing around him, sinking into his spot.]
Before that. [Chewing on how to address whatever he did in more intimate company, he wonders if he should send anything like this at all. But of course he... could. Not should. That's part of what makes Emet-Selch unique company: he has the whole of him.] Sometimes... If I wanted to celebrate others, I would try to impress them with something nice. One time, Blooky made a mix CD for me, entirely without me knowing. It was pretty bad. I liked it.
[That was strangely threatening of a promise, which ends up hitting on his own stubbornness.]
Take it and do with it what you like, then. I won't be coming anywhere near it.
[Take his birthday so thoroughly, that it has nothing to do with him and he can just ignore the whole thing.
Though oblivious to any desires for a bite (or several; there was rarely just one), Emet-Selch would not be surprised by it. Nor would he ever think of discouraging the impulse, neither of the biting, nor of the taking of his blood. Both experiences had become... pleasant. Both the rush of pain and the thought of the accompanying drain. Perhaps even the drain itself when Mettaton took enough for him to notice the distinct way it felt as it was being pulled from him. The idea of filling his Bonded up that way, coupled with the sight of the resulting wounds left on his own body- was something that not-infrequently occurred to him.
But any chance of thinking about that now is deflected by the rest of Mettaton's reply. The first part was as expected- the kind of gifts one would get from adoring fans, and though by their nature impersonal, the Ascian doubted that the idol would scorn them. For a love of the attention, a receiving of adoration that was only to be expected- but also an appreciation of their feelings expressed.
But it's the second part that gets his attention, and it softens him a little to think about. That the morose and depressive ghost would still manage to find the energy to put something together for their cousin. And of course Mettaton would appreciate it, regardless of the gift's actual quality- because it was for him, because someone important cared enough for him to try. That Mettaton would choose to disclose this moment to him at all, while knowing how reticent he was of his past- also mattered.
It takes him some moments to reply.]
Your cousin must care for you a great deal.
[And how awkward it inevitably would be, when he revealed who he was to them. It was the sort of thought that has him want to pull the idol into an embrace, to press his face to his throat.]
I don't think I could ever match something so earnest... but I suppose I'll have to try to find you something appropriate when the season turns.
[It's the sort of retort that has Mettaton that much more craving of Emet-Selch's skin: the heat of his blood washing his tongue, the warmth of his vitality in his throat, the give of his body flush to his own. A demand to overtake and temper him, to show him how very present they'd both be for the event. The kind of wanting that he glares at his device for. Were anybody watching him closely, he would be a roller-coaster ride of emotional twists and loops in expression, and he grinds his teeth for lack of anywhere to sink them. Emet-Selch misses his point, and he doesn't think he feels threatened enough.
It reminds him a little of how the Ascian would tell him not to get accustomed to the look of surprise on him when in reality, Mettaton relishes it all the more for how frequently he can pull it from him. And so he dedicates himself to surprising him and keeping his attention, something he glares harder at his device for until he levels his gaze with the nightlife unfolding before him. Why is he here... and not where his Bonded is?
He rises to his feet in that moment, incensed and alert and excited, before he gets the next reply.
It softens him in turn. The acknowledgement that the ghost he left behind cares for him so is a bittersweet note, and it feels like too long ago since he's seen them. He saw Napstablook in a memory, but he also saw them right before he showed up here... Those are points to hang onto. He wonders if he'd see them here. If he could introduce Emet-Selch to them — after, of course, awkwardly coming clean once and for all.
And how awkward it would be. Mettaton feels less uncertain about it right now, compared to some months ago. He can't begin to figure out why, not in this moment, especially when his focus is shifted back to the Ascian's sentiments. Mettaton so quickly shifts from ravenous and passionate to tender and infatuated when it comes to Emet-Selch. For his Bonded to have such dramatic sway over his emotions... He feels he met someone very special in him.]
I'm not concerned about you matching anything, darling. So don't worry about that. I have faith in you for what you have a mind for.
[Mettaton has no expectations, but a bar of standard. He's neither easy nor difficult to impress, but affected nonetheless. Emet-Selch's wondering about comparing to his cousin in itself is endearing.]
How about you? Did you commonly celebrate your real birthday? As opposed to my mercurial one.
[Was that a flash of something he felt through the Bond? A demand, a frustration, a hunger? He can well imagine that Mettaton wouldn't have been pleased with his refusal to have anything to do with his own birthday. A refusal that had more to do with pettiness rather than any deep-seated conviction, a stubbornness out of habit. And that if Mettaton were before him now, that they would've begun to tear at each other, his own body so much more fragile and blood-filled than the robot's, but no less willing to give in. And they would take--
--But it had faded just as quickly back and- Emet-Selch wasn't entirely certain if he'd imagined the whole thing. If he'd just been caught up in his idea of Mettaton's disapproval and passion, as well as to how it could fade back into tenderness just as easily. With just a few words of genuine sentiment, a memory invoked.]
Well, we'll see. 'Tis not an effort that I've regularly indulged in.
[And yet here he was, desiring to do unnecessary things. But he knew that Mettaton's relationship with his cousin was different than his relationship with the Ascian; there was no competition there. But he did want to please him. Or at the very least, not disappoint.
While he'd always known that Bonding with the puca was bound to be troublesome, he hadn't expected this to be one of the ways.]
And I'm sure it will come as no great surprise that I did not. My lack of interest in it was not unusual, however- with as long-lived as we were, any individual year might as well have been a day or an hour: so numerous as to be made mundane.
Moreover. It wasn't frowned on exactly... but to be so individually-invested was not a commonplace desire.
[It doesn't even occur to him to specify that this all applied to Amaurot alone. The idea of celebrating anything after the sundering would've been absurd.]
So with no tradition for it, I'm sure you can see why I'll continue in my lifetime of apathy to the bitter end.
[It's just as well that he doesn't think to address anything but Amaurot, because that's what Mettaton's thinking of. The aspect of birthdays losing meaning with years... It makes sense, even though Mettaton's own excitability over things like this scarcely wanes, only takes on new shades and variables. There's nothing mundane about the way the robot would like to live his life — he's been there, he's not a fan, time can disappear with the blink of an eye. Nothing provoking, nothing interesting, nothing stimulating. The Underground was full of that.
How did Emet-Selch deal with it... It makes more sense yet to read that being "individually-invested," or wanting to stand out, wasn't commonplace. He nods to himself. No wonder they didn't appear to care for fashion! No wonder even architecture was formed with such resonant harmony, not one building vying for attention over another! He's contrasting with human cities he's seen in movies with their advertisingsplendorandbrightlights, all things Mettaton... likes... and did not see in Amaurot. It was closer to the towering pressure he wanted than Aefenglom, far closer to the city strips he'd dreamed of, but quite different. Orderly. Beautiful. Elegant. And Mettaton thought that if he were unleashed in such a city, he'd have a hard time figuring out which building was which. Lacking individuality.
He hums thoughtfully. They're not talking about cities, though. Though an undercurrent of possessiveness remains, he remains in a more thoughtful state than a fervent one.]
Then... I'll ensnare you in my own captivation for such investment. I think you can break your streak of apathy a little... and celebrate a birthday. Something exciting to occupy one of those mundane days or hours! An indulgence, yes.
[Even if he's sure Emet-Selch isn't inclined toward being so center stage, it's not like it has to be like that. That may be Mettaton's thing, but he acknowledges their differences. Even if it were just himself, he would be content celebrating Emet-Selch.
Already, Mettaton brainstorms "good ways to celebrate Emet-Selch." A lack of desire for material goods, it would be easy for Mettaton to deliver his sentiment through means of expression. He knows already there are other things he could give him any day, but things made special by dedicating them upon him specifically for a day. Mettaton's aim is always to impress, and he has no doubt he could. He's nothing if not confident in his ability to inspire.]
You wouldn't protest to my want to celebrate you, would you? As I am invested in you, after all...
Edited (he could break his Steak of Apathy, too, i guess) 2020-06-28 05:23 (UTC)
[Emet-Selch would be surprised to hear that Mettaton thought Amaurot, in its beautiful elegance (that part was right) lacked individuality itself. Or thought it would be hard to navigate on his own. Surely the Ascian's memorization of the city, down to the placement of individual trees, had nothing to do with his idea of how easy or otherwise the place would be to get around in to an outsider.
Mettaton's insistence on giving any sort of attention to a birthday still pulls a continued frown from him, directed at the watch, as though that would make any more of a difference compared to directing it at Mettaton directly. It was fine for the robot to be interested in things like that for himself- considering how captivated he was by mortal habits, it was to be expected, and who else would care about the recording of years?- but why inflict it on someone uninterested?
While on one hand, he could appreciate Mettaton's desire for appreciation of him. It was warranted, of course. But on several other hands (somehow) he resisted the concept entirely.]
Anything that you would call exciting I doubt I would want to get anywhere near of. So yes- I would protest.
[Though he can guess that Mettaton would try to take his preferences into account, and that it wouldn't be a wholly terrible experience, but that doesn't make him like the idea that much more. He'd tolerate it if it happened, but--]
Besides. It seems a morbid thing to celebrate. An accruing of years in this place... knowing that it shall never be reflected elsewhere. No, I still want no part in that.
[Time could only keep ticking over for him here. He already spent enough time dwelling on that, he didn't care to devote a specific day to doing nothing else.]
[Trade the confusion of harmonious architecture for the confusion of chaotic billboards and flashy advertisements. Would it really be any easier to navigate than a labyrinthine human city with its competing labels and brands, but at least everything is labelled/mislabeled? No. But it's what Mettaton would want.
Mettaton's easy mood is challenged by what he reads, and that spark of aggression returns in him as he smiles maliciously at his device, ears swiveling, angling, flicking. It's not that Emet-Selch would protest — that's fine. If he were really so reluctant, Mettaton would be glad to reduce his celebratory efforts into something compact, a token of his appreciation for being that he thinks would be agreeable to the Ascian. Meeting in-between. No, what incites his ire is, once again, the assertion that time spent here has no meaning elsewhere.
And his aggression is difficult to channel into anything productive, given how uncertain it all continues to be. But he's agitated all the same. He marches onward, in the direction of his Bonded. People part for the tall robotic Puca, his stride so long, so fast, so unstoppable and regarding nothing in his path that he might just stomp someone flat if they didn't yield to him.
Nobody agitates him quite like Emet-Selch does.]
You don't have any surefire proof of that, darling. We've gone over this.
You'll find it reflected elsewhere. It'll haunt you. I'll haunt you. Always. You won't be able to stop thinking about me, and these years you spend with me. You'll be hooked. I'll make sure of it.
[He writes it like slamming his thumbs on his keys... He scarcely thinks about it, emotion high. But he adds on quickly, emotions still high and the smell of the air striking him suddenly (smells, tastes, senses he doesn't want to forget even if he loses them),]
Yes. Your time here matters. Significantly. You'll leave with me yourself, you know. Your impact.
[Mettaton is hellbent on remembering, after all, which he has no say in doing. He considers that a form of reflection. He considers then that he'll remember how much Emet-Selch plays his nerves, and how much he loves him for it.]
[While Emet-Selch would still wish to show Mettaton a living Amaurot- not a memory, not a lonely reconstruction under the waters of the First- he would worry slightly as to what influence the showy idol would have on the place. Though the Amaurotine population might be bewildered at the purpose of competing anything apart from politely debated philosophies... anything created was made available freely to the good of all, surely.
But Mettaton's mood comes across loud and very clear in his reply- a response that has his eyes narrow, manner tense and contained. While the robot might well trample anyone careless enough to get underfoot, the Ascian is still, the grip he has on his watch tight. There's energy, certainly, but with nothing even resembling an outlet for it.
It was a strange thing to be so agitated, perhaps even angry- to have that even be laced with his usual bitterness and petty spite- but to not actually despise Mettaton for it at all. It was a delicate balance to strike, a knife-edge of precision, to incite to emotion but not cruelty. To frustration but not resentment. And even in his current state, he loved him for managing it.]
And you have no more proof that we'll remember aught.
[It's not that he wanted to deny his impact. Nor to refuse it or refute it; even as he expected to lose it, he'd demand that it remain. For Mettaton to carve himself so deeply that they'd never be rid of each other. He wanted this; there was no question of that. So long as they remained there, there would be no cutting free.
So long as they remained here. Sometimes he could ignore it; sometimes Emet-Selch thought he was getting better at accepting it, either to focus on what Mettaton could give him here, or to believe in him impossibly. But sometimes, like now, he wondered if it was less acceptance and more denial, an avoidance of topics that called to mind the futility of what they both wanted.
Or perhaps he was just agitated in general, or drawing off of Mettaton's own unsettled state, latching onto a topic easy to twist despairing.]
So long as we're here- yes. I'll never be free of you. You'll never be rid of me. You can carve it down to the bone if you like, drain me of all that I'll ever have here- and here is all we'll ever have.
[Imagine it... Amaurot, but with neon lights and marquee signs... Single-handedly, he would do this. That's Mettaton...
His pace is even, the sound of his footsteps a rhythm unstoppable to his own ears, the tempo of a quickened heartbeat if he were to have one. No outlet indeed, and no way to confirm a thing, Mettaton's forced to acknowledge that there may be no remembering (for most people; he's still decided that he's exempt from all of the rules). But that means that Emet-Selch could forget him, and he realizes he dislikes that.
In his irritation, he denies the very possibility. He grips onto that tether between them with all of his might, letting it determine his course so that he could trace it back to his lover, do exactly what Emet-Selch wrote: carve to bone, drain him completely, and surpass here. He can't whittle his already pinpointed annoyance down into words, feeling it would only do to let likewise sharp claws and teeth do all of the expressing for him. Thoughts could be communicated by way of manner, by way of action and expression: dance, gesture, violence, sex, affection. All of it at once.
Mettaton hates that he has no proof to the contrary.
So even in his trek, he adapts. He may be determined to find Emet-Selch (at whatever place he's calling residence for the night, his Puca-derived ability to track things down a boon), but he tries to figure out how else he could approach this. If they forget everything, if there is no record of it, all scars removed and no physical evidence remaining on Emet-Selch's body regardless of Mettaton's care to establish it...
His device comes back out, though he doesn't slow.]
I bit you raw in our dreams, and you woke without sign of it. However, it happened. Each time you lay claim to my body, each time it disappears from transformation or to silicone... I know of it. Nothing changes that we have everything of each other. Even if it's only here, by some chance... Even were it forgotten. It's here.
More importantly, I'm going to have you right now, gorgeous. Whether I'm right or not, it would be a shame not to occupy myself with what I love and adore in this moment! You do know how to provoke me so completely... Unlike any other.
[Were this anyone else, the Ascian's irritation would override all else. The presumption of deciding what was there or not (even if he agreed entirely, that every bruise healed, that every bite vanished due to dream, to transformation, all of it remained), the greater presumption that Mettaton could just decide how his time would be occupied- it would've been intolerable. Mettaton could track him through Bond and monster-given senses, but the Ascian was a witch who could teleport. He could escape for a while if he chose; until his own energy ran out he could abscond as much as he desired.
And for a moment he's tempted. Not out of any actual want to escape, but because he could. Out of spite, or a similarly petty demand to be chased. His pulse lifts, and it's almost as if he can feel the way his blood ran quicker through his veins, as though it knew what was coming for it should he choose to remain, should Mettaton catch up with him. Because there was no question of what would happen: the sinking of teeth, the tearing of flesh, the slickness and heat of blood escaping the insufficient confines of his body. A feeling he could hardly get enough of, to capture Mettaton's attention completely, to feel that focus writ messily onto his skin and beneath it. A connection he longed for, a proof he needed endlessly applied, that they belonged to one another--
And yet the impulse remained to flee. To spite himself, to prove some point he's not even sure of. It's enough to have him stand- even pace in a terse arc around the tastefully appointed confines of his room- the room he held at Mettaton's house, specifically, one of those times he was in his own, rather than his lover's.
He can tell the puca's closing in, even if he can't tell precisely how far off he is, how much time he has remaining. It's an anticipation that only adds to his agitation. But in his indecision, he's distracted by answering.]
It's here, for as long as we are. What then, what afterward? If we both forget if there's nothing left
[A statement he can't even complete, making an annoyed sound as he unintentionally sends it in his rush. It's followed almost immediately by another.]
You should hurry, then. Before I decide to spend this night elsewhere.
[He wouldn't spend his night anywhere but in Mettaton's arms, he thinks, even as he hastens his pace into a sprint. There's nothing more to write.
Mettaton may be wearing heels, but he has the same power behind his legs granted to him by transforming into a Puca at all, something of an interesting, welcome change, despite their distortion in appearance. He's so fast now, his legs have such substance, and it's a rush just to use them at all when he's this wound up. It's even a rush to know that his Bonded remains, that they're both keyed up and agitated by their circumstances, both of them knowing the same thing yet contending for either side of the issue.
If Mettaton couldn't feel Emet-Selch's emotions clear as day through their Bond, he'd be able to tell in his erratic manner of typing. But even his own mood is clear: his decision, his desperation, his assertion, his possessiveness and his craving. All the idol's adoration manifest.
He's a lot faster when running, making it easy to clear distance from Entertainment District to Haven. He takes shortcuts over buildings - they're nothing to his ability to jump them and his inability to hurt himself in the process - and it's no time at all until he kicks in his own front door, caring little for trying the knob. (He fortunately only breaks it a little.) Mettaton closes it (to the best of his ability), marches up the stairs on steely steps marked by the click of heels, and opens Emet-Selch's door.
He closes it behind him, and locks eyes with his lover's figure. All at once, that flinty coldness to his golden eye ignites into passion, and he crosses the room for him in a matter of strides.]
Hades.
[Mettaton's voice is modulated and firm when he says his name, but low enough for it to be just for his ears as he stands before him. A deliberate use of his name as he confirms what he savors having of him. He pulls Emet-Selch close and... simply presses his forehead to his, first. He tips their noses, closes his eye, loves him and breathes in his presence. It's heavy and heartfelt, the product fondness. Mettaton smiles softly.
Should there be no protest, he slips down to his neck and snaps his teeth into flesh in with a voracity, shuddering and sighing into the heady feeling of his Bonded's magic signature. A long-awaited treat, the feeling of his Bond's soul so close, his body warm and alive in his arms, his blood hot and his favorite thing to taste. His arms pull Emet-Selch so close to his waist that he may very well be lifting him off the floor slightly.]
[He didn't have long to wait. He knew he wouldn't.
Pacing paused at the distinctive slam of a door being kicked open, all of the Ascian's restlessness continues to build in the face of losing even that meager outlet of movement. This would be his last chance to leave for a time, to put off the inevitable for no reason at all, and for all that he didn't want to, the idea remained, intrusive. A long-ingrained habit towards making things worse was a hard thing to override, the spell in his thoughts, his fingers digging into his palms as he fought back the instinct to escape.
When his own door opens, he freezes in place entirely, as though he were the one with the puca-instinct towards stillness. Only his voice remains, gaze locked upon his lover's face. How familiar he'd become to him, and how welcome the sight of him was. All of that tension and aggression and hurting remained, but the accompanying tenderness was unmistakable.]
Mettaton.
[An acknowledgement. A breath let out as Mettaton closes in on him. His own eyes slip shut as their foreheads touch, at the brush of their noses together, at the brush of their souls close together. This much was as it should be. A sense of belonging that in itself brought an ache; he was trapped, just as he'd wanted from the start.
Emet-Selch knows what's coming when Mettaton's head dips lower, his action so natural that he tenses no further at it. If anything, there was a sense of relief of finally having his lover's teeth in his neck, where they should be, his cry choked off into a hissing inhalation. The sharpness, the rightness of it all brought with it a form of clarity, as though the only way he could be certain of anything in his life was when he could feel Mettaton tearing into his flesh, mouth filling with blood. When he could feel arms crushing him against an unforgiving body, his own the only one able to yield.
It felt like Mettaton could scoop him up entirely like this, with his greater height and machine-led strength. It already felt like his breath was being pushed from his lungs, with no chance given to collect any more- a feeling he only attempts to enhance by the way his own arms wrap around the puca's body. They tighten; his fingers claw for purchase against metal and across fur, to touch, to hold, to push him ever closer. To drive him deeper into his neck with a need, a demand. If the idol was going to threaten his balance, he could have it, as he locks a leg around his, to further reduce space, to further feel him.
To be convinced. That they would remain, that they would remember, that all of this meant a damn even if they did not. To be convinced, over and over, carved into so many times until he had nothing left with which to deny it. Even then, it wouldn't be enough; even then he'd still want him, from the firmness of jaws and sharpness of claws, to the softness and love that went with them.]
[It's true: were he to teleport, Mettaton would track him down again. Bond failing, he would simply think of an object he'd imagine on his person: his earring, if he couldn't simply covet his soul and find him that way. Mettaton has countless ways he'd track him down, and he doesn't imagine Emet-Selch would put up such a fight so as to make him truly untraceable.
This simply means he can devote his energy entirely to ravishing him rather than hunting him.
Blood seeps between his teeth and drains into his mouth. He's gotten good at forming his lips around his bite to reduce the amount of loss, so wanting of his Bonded's blood as he is. His ears perk up, though there's a contentedness to them in their angle, in how they lean and swivel to pick up sounds from his Bondmate over all else. Feeling even his leg locked with his, Mettaton nuzzles into his bite, agitating it, ushering forth a greater gush — has he hit something good already? There's so much...
He sucks; it's a relief beyond measure. He couldn't begin to cough on all of the blood he has in his throat, given that he has no need to breathe, but he swallows and swallows, pleased by its abundance. Mettaton groans into his bite, realizing that he'd been wanting this taste for... days. Ever since he last had his fix of the Ascian, even though it hasn't been long. How stressed he's been, how frantic and agitated, and how immediately Emet-Selch's life serves to ameliorate his troubles, a cure to his anxieties. He is his solace where he can't have one, and his next sigh is crossed with the notes of pleasure and desperation both. And now that he has it, it's a wonderful bite of him, he thinks. One he could suck on for a time, with how plentiful a supply it is. (Perhaps MTT isn't considering any danger to his Emet-Selch. How much is too much? Mettaton doesn't know of such a thing.)
Adjusting his hold on his lover, one of Mettaton's flexible arms winds entirely around Emet-Selch's middle as the other crosses over his back, gripping down onto his ass as he comfortably takes a share of gravity from the Ascian. The idol tugs him as close as he can, shifting his hip into Emet-Selch's leg to form his body against his where he knows it'll give way to his own. Pressing as completely to him as possible as he sucks rapturously upon his injury.
He can only show him he has him in this moment, but this moment has expanse. The uncertainty of their return, should it come, should it be cruel... Whenever it is, it's not now, and now is always happening. Mettaton's upset begins to dissolve with him in his arms: there's nothing to worry about. Emet-Selch is securely in his grip, and surely his loss would feel like danger. He feels nothing of the sort.
This reassurance in place, Mettaton sighs again into his neck, adjusting his lips once more when he feels blood seep from the corner of them. He shudders, even as he remains stable. He swallows again breaking free and sighing long and hard against his skin.
Mettaton kisses him where a bruise blooms around punctures. He bleeds copiously. He shivers again, the smell overwhelming him, intoxicating him. All of his pleasure to have his Bonded so close is immense, and he feels he possesses him all the more for his delight. With a voice deeper and thicker, painted awash in the blood in his throat and the love he harbors, Mettaton speaks against his throat.]
Ah... Y-You didn't tense, darling... I can tell...
[His sharpened teeth slipped through him so readily. It makes him want more.]
[Relying on Mettaton to stand as a hypothetical turns into relying on him to stand as a truth; his arms cling onto him with a certain rigidity, grateful for the idol's reliable winding grip. The rush of dizziness catches him off-guard, and with it a hint of nausea, as he feels the distinct way Mettaton sucked upon the wound, and how quickly blood flowed from it, in a seemingly endless torrent. And how good the robot had gotten, he distantly noticed, at funneling most of it down his throat; so little, at first, escaped his desperate lips.
It was just the suddenness of the drain, he assumed; Mettaton hadn't taken this much this quickly before. As deep as the wound on his chest had been (and still was, as it was yet reluctantly healing), necks were an easier access point for the fluid. From the last time, he'd perhaps he'd felt a touch weaker afterward, but that was the natural result of injury. And this- this was just the abruptness; he'd adjust, he was certain.
His breath is quicker; he swallows heavily. His fingers knead slowly into Mettaton, trying to think more on the press of his hip and the tie of their legs, on the familiar hold on his ass, but it was a faded backdrop to the blood. His heartbeat. That specific sort of pulsing; his lover's lips against the wound.]
I... ah--
[It's not a distracted note (how could he be distracted from all of this?) or even precisely a disoriented one, but it takes a few moments to gather his concentration, to apply them to words. His pulse was thready and so quickened; he wondered how easily Mettaton could feel it, each moment squeezing that bit more life from him. With the puca's mouth less-effectively covering the wound in order to speak (but not to breathe; a robot's body had its advantages, he thought... he would require no breaks from him) he can better feel the way it not only welled up, but flowed past. Wetness uncaught by lips pours down his neck to soak into fabric. A deep red scent that was not uncommon these days.]
Perhaps I'm getting used to it.
[A healthy response to develop, surely: a complete lack of alarm to incisors slicing into his throat. But how could he be at all troubled, knowing what effect his blood had on his lover? Mettaton had been so anxious ever since they'd returned from the underground, and to know he could sooth him like this, if only for a time... it filled him with affection for him. And if Emet-Selch were likewise soothed by the connection, the sensation made it that much harder to think about inevitable losses. Much harder to think in general, but particularly about that; how could anything be forgotten when they were so full of each other? A trading of blood for open wounds, a connection so natural it sets him shivering.]
no subject
He wondered distantly if would've gone better if Mettaton had some choice in the matter, if it were his decision to tell, to provide only the detail he decided on. And the Ascian thought it might, yet at the same time- that would inherently still be a choice under duress, wouldn't it? Emet-Selch couldn't imagine him volunteering anything unless the alternative was even worse.
Mettaton's slow reveal of information to himself, though... yes, he supposed that was probably the closest to a voluntary affair. And that was only because he'd guessed at the robot's nature on his own, rather than needing told or finding out elsewhere. And with that starting point, Mettaton had been able to disclose more about himself at his own pace, more or less. A sharing of selves....
While he doubted the man would've wanted him to ever see what he had... the opportunity had only come about after trust had been built. And Mettaton could have refused him, and Emet-Selch would've listened (even if it would've damaged his own trust of him, to be denied).
Control of the information, he thought- that was probably crucial. Not being in the same category as humanity probably helped as well. In the presence of another ghost... there was less need for a facade. Emet-Selch felt the same way, after all.]
If that's the case....
[It's something he has to think a moment on himself. But the conclusion arrives quickly. There could really be only one choice in the end.]
Should such an outcome come about, regardless of all our efforts- there's no one here I would refuse to act upon. That much, at least... you may be assured of.
[That's not to say there weren't those he would hesitate with. Or that he wouldn't regret the necessity of it, perhaps. But it wouldn't stop him. He'd done far worse things for the sake of people he cared for.]
no subject
Reaching out to Emet-Selch was the right choice, not that there was any other path he would have taken. He trusts him wholly.]
Having you to confide in... and to rely on. I feel better. Immeasurably. You know just how to ease my worries, dearest. I could kiss you.
[Onlookers watching this liberally reclining Puca and his leaning ears as he regards his device with a relieved grin and fixed attention probably think he's messaging a crush, with how totally absorbed he is by the device. They're right. Would That They Knew The Subject Matter, However.
The problem has yet to be solved. That much is true. But Emet-Selch's willingness to help Mettaton, no matter who should come into possession of his history in the future, is an immense relief in a city as precarious as Aefenglom. Who knew what sorts of spells or situations existed that might expose him? Yet with Emet-Selch to help him, he could feel secure in knowing that he'd be taken care of.
A thought strikes the robot. A curiosity he'd never addressed, surprisingly.]
You yourself very quickly admitted to me that you're an Ascian, though in description rather than in word. Do you prefer to keep that secret, here in Aefenglom? I imagine it was a necessity to keep it secret where you're from... Given the reactions I saw humans have to you.
[Twice... Well, Varis already knew, obviously. (He didn't appreciate it. Violence happened.) But there was the time he introduced himself as an Ascian, and all hackles were raised then. (They didn't appreciate it either. There was tension that could be cut with Thancred's readied blade.) Perhaps it has something to do with trying to usher in their demise...]
no subject
But it was... good, to know that he'd been able to provide Mettaton some relief from that unsettled state he'd been in during the past few days. That he'd been able to do that for him with just a few words- was nice. And yet the Ascian's own look is a bit sad, and something he only permits himself because he's in private; he's not sure if he'll ever get used to being afforded the chance to have a positive effect on someone he cared for.]
I'm sure you could. Alas, 'tis a physical impossibility.
[Not being in the same location... is probably the only way they can keep their hands off each other.
The accompanying question comes as a slight surprise, but given the context of their conversation, he supposed it made sense. Unlike Mettaton, though, he didn't have any particular issues when it came to being a ghost-like entity. Though it was true that he didn't usually go out of his way to volunteer it, yet he had with the robot.... Still, facing the likelihood of death, keeping a detail like that to himself had felt pointless. Mettaton had incorrectly labeled him as a human, and he'd seen no reason not to correct him at the time.]
Here, 'Ascian' is not a word that would mean much of anything to anyone, save to those from my star. And when it comes to them, most already know what I am. But even at home, our existence is not common knowledge, and apart from a handful of individuals who attempt to track our activities, we remain an unknown.
As for a more practical description of my nature, in this place, I don't offer it to everyone, but nor do I specifically hide it. I've no particular identity to maintain here. And with no relevant abilities to speak of... what I used to be capable of is of little relevance.
My name and Amaurot are all that I truly care to keep private.
no subject
And then they wouldn't be able to stay off each other, and Mettaton's in a particularly summery mood that he'd scarcely care about anyone around him, and it would only devolve from there. A repeat of the Looking-Glass House, only worse... A part of Mettaton's mind is dedicated to this very thought and scenario, fantasies about kissing his Bondmate at the forefront. But he's also preoccupied with the conversation, the unfortunate distance, and the still-present worries about Soren that have been soothed, but not eliminated.]
Amaurot too... I assumed as much. And now I know with certainty, what you consider classified.
[As chatty as Mettaton is, there are two things about him that have kept him from talking much about Emet-Selch to others, from inane details to matters of what he is or where he comes from. The first: Mettaton loves to talk about himself, particularly his capabilities and beauty (and not about his past, thank you). The second: nobody has really asked about his personal life, and Mettaton doesn't readily offer it without being pressed. Emet-Selch constitutes part of his personal life, as his Bonded and his lover.
Rereading, he registers that Emet-Selch has no identity to preserve here. He wonders what it must be like to be like him, caring so little whether or not somebody found out that he was an entity who lost his body and assumed a new one for a lack of one. That he's otherwise incorporeal. Aefenglom's general attitude toward the spectral is wary, and Mettaton dislikes the thought of a human treating him with wariness and concern, or worse. Emet-Selch, on the other hand, he could believe caring less for how others regarded him.
There could have been a hint of progress toward being less fearful of others learning that he's a ghost, but it doesn't occur. He chalks it up to their differences in energy and demeanor. Mettaton has his own misgivings, besides.]
Well. What you consider important is safe with me. Although switching back to Emet-Selch is always a difficulty... I like your name too much. But I manage.
[it's short and the perfect amount of syllables]
no subject
So he turns instead to the conversation, concerns for this new crisis in the back of his mind, along with a certain resoluteness regarding it.]
Then I will appreciate both your attempts at discretion, as well as your preference for my name. Even so- 'tis not the same as your protectiveness over your own history. While I would detest strangers knowing of mine, it's not to the point of needing to erase their memory of it.
[The difference between something being personal, and being mortifying, he supposed. Few had any right to his name or past, but it wasn't something he was specifically hiding. It was only a matter of who deserved to know. And those numbers were drastically limited.
By comparison, being a ghost was of significantly less concern. Keeping it to himself was more a matter of keeping most things to himself, rather than a spectral-nature specifically. It helped, certainly, that the Ascian had considerable disdain for humanity. Why would he be interested in the opinion of something so far beneath him? Whether it was fear or acceptance, neither was a result that he cared anything for.]
But what of you? Apart from the obvious... is there anything you'd wish to keep private?
[While Emet-Selch was considerably less distractable when it came to discussions about himself, no matter his own superiority, he also kept his personal life, well, personal. Given an appropriate question, he might deign to answer it, but there was no reason to volunteer anything. So though he had no interest in hiding anything (they'd certainly had public conversations on the network which would no doubt imply something about their relationship), he'd also had no reason to specifically bring up being Bonded to him to much of anyone.
Which had, perhaps, backfired a little when he hadn't cared enough to inform any of his other Bonded when he'd taken on a fourth, but, that was all in the past now.... Perhaps he might even have learned something from that.]
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[Which is very different from his own origin or history, which he'd prefer nobody knows unless they already do, without his intervention, but within his control. It's a very delicate subject and with Emet-Selch serving as his Bondmate, he scarcely sees any need for anyone else to know. It's not as if anyone would think to ask of such a specific scenario, he thinks.
On the other hand, having a name of preference plus a title slots in with the Ascian's preferences about the way he conducts himself. Truly, having been stripped of all that he regards as his, he can see why he'd hold close what's important to him. It's the reverse of the way Mettaton flaunts what he considers his, but because Mettaton only gained, while Emet-Selch only lost. ...It's saddening to think on.]
Let's see... Well, I'm not forthright about my original build. The one intended to win the king's favor. It's as you said, when I first told you that I was built as a human eradication robot. Humans might not like that! But if one of them learned, I'd manage it. For example... I have told Mira that I was built as a weapon first, among a few others. Not that it was to destroy humans, though. Haha.
I can't think of much else. Oh. My age. I have a story to uphold! I claim I'm several years old. Nine, I think. Yes. I believe I would be almost nine, to the public.
Robots, darling. They start out life precisely as programmed. There is another robot here... he's scarcely a year old. You wouldn't guess it.
[Imagine Mettaton trying to ensure that fellow robots do not perceive him as anything but. It's an ordeal, but he's an actor, even though he fails at understanding his own body where most androids are calculating and accurate... It's fine. He makes it work.
From his place remotely, Mettaton nearly jumps in his interested realization. More of the learning process about his Bonded, more details he'd love to know should he possess them.]
That reminds me! Do you have a birthday?? Even old men like you surely have a beginning, thousands of years back.
[He was very amused when Vanitas called him, endearingly, "old man."]
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But still, useful information nonetheless. And when it came to a more explicit past- Emet-Selch rather liked being one of only two people here who knew of it, and would agree entirely that Mettaton didn't need to share this part of himself any further. The idol was protective of it, and the Ascian was possessive of it.]
Yes, I'm unsurprised that you've avoided mentioning your supposed purpose for construction. As unfitting as you seem to that cause, humans are foolish, their feelings capricious.
[Because it's completely irrational to be uneasy around a robot who self-discloses that he was specifically created to destroy humanity.
A robot would be made to perform a specific way... so presumably Mettaton's eccentricities could be written off as an intended part of his design. Or an accidental flaw in construction. Or even just a quirk in the rules governing robots on another world. Some places had magic, and some did not... and some had stranger robots than others. Even when facing other robots, he thought it shouldn't be too strange of a thing to manage.
Old men... that has Emet-Selch side-eyeing the watch a little, indeed reminded of Vanitas' term for him. Not that it wasn't fitting, he couldn't exactly pretend otherwise, especially from the perspective of a mortal. But it wasn't as though he was anywhere near the oldest in the Convocation....]
And of course I have a birthday, though it's not as if the turns of days were smoothly translated over when the world was broken. And this place is even further removed from that.
It was in the late Spring, I can give you that much.
[So thankfully just past any point of picking a day here and going with that.]
Do you remember your own? Assuming you have one, of course.
[With all else they knew of each other- more heavy topics than not- it struck him as almost quaint that they'd eventually reach inane details like this. Did ghosts even have birthdays? Was there any point in an immortal marking the span of years?]
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[Mettaton is far less worried about people knowing, but at least he's learned to act with a bit of discretion. Some people can know, others might not be a good idea. It wasn't as though it would be a surprise that his people would want to defend themselves... Or kill just a few humans...
More importantly, he's excited to have received a birthday from his Bonded. Late Spring? Good enough for Mettaton! It's likely the most helpful measure he could have, given how different he can imagine some worlds operate. Seasons may even be different, but at least there's an approximate springtime in Aefenglom. (Two springtimes, if the Wilde counts! Mettaton's greedy.) He spares a moment to regard passersby on Aefenglom's streets, noting their attire for warmth with the acknowledgement that Spring has sprung and it's onto Summer already.
This world may not be even remotely close to Emet-Selch's, but Mettaton decides late Spring is his.]
Late Spring. That's perfect. I'm surprised! Not because of the time of year. But because late Spring just passed!! Of course you wouldn't make any note of it. Next time, beautiful.
[He wonders when the last time was that he even celebrated a birthday. (Is that something he was ever accustomed to doing?) More years yet to add atop Emet-Selch's stacks of years. A cake with so many candles on it, it may as well just be a bonfire. A thing to get a fire permit for... Mettaton amuses himself with this thought, because he likes the thought of his Bonded having a birthday at all (and his own humor). The robot just has that kind of energy. Someone excitable about small details like this, and there may be more reasons yet for that, because-]
My birthday... is whenever I want it to be, of course. [So his is "picking a day and going with it".] I pick a month... and that's my birthday! [Oh, or... "picking a month and going with it."] Really though, I wasn't born, like most beings. I'm sure you could have guessed. I don't know where I came from. I just started being! Though I don't have a clue when...
[Seasons do not exist Underground. Neither does any indication of the passing of time, lunar nor solar. He easily realized that was why Monsters in the underground civilization never had to worry about going feral on the full moon, because it simply didn't apply.]
The day I started being a robot. That was late October — mid-Autumn. I'm sure you can imagine what month I favor... but I can have any of them, as I like.
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I'd honestly forgotten. I can't recall the last time I made any notice of it.
[Though it had been mostly from a lack of inclination, the differences between Source and shard didn't help. On some occasions time flowed at the same speed between them, at others a hundred years could pass on one in the space of a few months on another. Even though he spent the majority of his time on the Source, it would've been futile to keep track of something so arbitrary. And those years spent asleep in the void between spaces- how would those even count?
That Mettaton would've been likely to do something for it doesn't surprise him. And Emet-Selch can't deny either the sense of relief that he'd narrowly avoided the attention, or the dread of him doing something for it next year. Yet at the same time... he found he didn't disapprove of the idea as much as he thought he would. It would mean they would both still be here in a year. And how terrible it was, to have to mark time in such small increments, that a single passing year together would be a cause for celebration.
(And how could he ever consider it like that at all? How could he desire to stay, even if going home wouldn't save anyone--)]
I'd wondered how entities like yourself came about....
[What other way could naturally-occurring ghosts exist, he supposed, other than just... appearing one day. A soul spontaneously manifesting, wrapped up in a non-corporeal shell. Did all ghosts consider themselves 'cousins'? It wasn't as though they could be related in the normal sense, but their shared nature could lead to a closer natural tie than most families....
But he hums to himself, unsurprised that Mettaton didn't know the specific day he'd begun existing, or even the time of year. A life spent wholly underground would make denoting any passage of time far more difficult. No time of day, much less time of year- time itself would be a hypothetical.]
Though if you select too many months, then it stops being special, doesn't it? [The Ascian is even more Unsurprised to hear Mettaton apparently deciding to select a month (or several), rather than content himself with a mere day. It gets a sigh from him.] The point when you became a robot seems as reasonable a time as any.
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[Given how people everywhere regard ghosts, he's wondered if he is the product of something dead after all... Who knows. Regardless, he's living now, and that's all that really matters to him. If he was something else before, he doesn't remember it. He doesn't think about it too hard.
Mettaton hums in turn, likewise unsurprised that Emet-Selch cannot remember the last he'd regarded his own birthday. It's somehow predictable of him, even if it's still remarkable. To have a concrete birthday - or at least, the rough figure of one - and not to pay it mind is far from what the idol would do, space-time complications aside. To have gone so far as to neglect it, at that... It checks out with so much else the Ascian has neglected about himself, he thinks. Indeed, as Emet-Selch fears, he'll change that. His is a birthday that will go fully acknowledged at the next opportunity, be it within Aefenglom's city limits, or out in the Wilde. Mettaton's not picky.
He doesn't even consider Emet-Selch or himself not being here, because he's busy thinking about this conversation happening right now, and what it pertains to. About birthdays. About knowing Emet-Selch's, and more concretely deciding his own — particularly relevant now that the sun is a thing, and time flows with meaning beyond squares on a calendar and the hands of a clock. He instead dreams about ways to celebrate, closing his eye.]
Any birthday of mine is special. There's never too much of a good thing! It was something to be excited about! An occasion for everyone to celebrate. But I'm glad you agree with my primary choice.
Since you're inclined to forget, I'll be sure to remember for you, Hades, darling. It wouldn't be hard to remember. After all, we're practically opposites again! How lovely.
[Thinking about birthdays is a distraction from the knowledge that another Mirrorbound possesses unwanted knowledge about him. And wouldn't promise to keep it secret, the way Mettaton wants. His attention's on his Bonded.]
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[Assuming his death was immutable, inescapable- it felt that much more pointless to keep track of the ticking over of days here. What good did that accomplish, existing past a point of expiration--
He shakes his head; that was the wrong direction for distraction. And Emet-Selch doubted that Mettaton has at all forgotten the doom that hangs over him, dragon-shaped and indifferent, and that the conversation now was equally about distraction as it was interest (though he supposes the interest part was still genuine, for some reason). But it was a glimmer of distraction that the Ascian didn't mind indulging in itself, as meaningless as the topic seemed to him. Even if it wouldn't be possible to relax entirely until the problem was solved, that would take some time; if he could provide some kind of break to that gnawing concern, that was all to the good.
But Spring to Autumn... all the things they had in opposite, from the notable to the mundane. And considering the seasonal inverse of the Wilde- opposites that could technically coexist at the same time. The Ascian is not going to mention this.]
It sounds as though you're used to having some manner of celebration. [An opportunity to celebrate... himself. Of course Mettaton would embrace every chance of it.] Is there anything you prefer to do for the... occasion, as lengthy as you might attempt to make it?
[Claiming a whole month- a whole season still struck him as absurd, but- gods help him, he'd probably have to get something for his Bonded. Mettaton seemed like the sort of person who would appreciate that, and he cared about him enough to take preferences like that into account. How annoying.
At least he had time to think about it, he supposed, sighing again.]
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So he writes,]
Such liberty to do as I please... I may just take your birthday, then. Yes, I WILL celebrate it.
[Weirdly threatening for just saying "I'm going to celebrate your birthday whether you like it or not." It's also one of the things he feels like biting him for suddenly...
Mettaton does not view his thirst for blood to be tiresome or unwanted. He stares at very human-appearing passersby. The robot remembers when he could smell Mira in a particularly tense moment, how she was just a Witch to him for a fleeting moment that he can barely grasp...
And just as quickly, he banishes the thought. Really, other Witches don't smell like Emet-Selch. There's no reason he'd want their blood as much, logically. That he would ever pursue anyone else's was surely because he only wanted Emet-Selch's. And that makes it all slot comfortably into place, even as he watches two obviously practicing Witches walking by hand-in-hand, watches their skin, thinks of the taste that pulses underneath. Yes, Mettaton's distracted. For him, it's a manageable distraction to the tune of arousal on a body that shows no signs of it. Similarly, he shows the public no signs of his hunger unless there were a perceptive eye in the crowd.
He's just thinking of Emet-Selch bruised and bitten and in his arms. And thinking of him makes him keep reading. Then, of course, he's made to think of himself, given the subject matter.]
I am used to it. Yes. I would get plenty of fan correspondence... Letters, flowers, gifts. Tributes to my splendor. When you have a birthday before a crowd, that's the sort of reception you'd expect. An abundance of adoration foisted upon you... Haha.
[Mettaton is the kind of person who would say he got "so many cards that he couldn't read them all," but he definitely reads every last word. Nonetheless, there wasn't as much in the ways of celebrating from anyone he considered close during those times. So when he thinks of that, he has to dig deeper, and he stops thinking of Witch blood altogether. He stops listening to people conversing around him, sinking into his spot.]
Before that. [Chewing on how to address whatever he did in more intimate company, he wonders if he should send anything like this at all. But of course he... could. Not should. That's part of what makes Emet-Selch unique company: he has the whole of him.] Sometimes... If I wanted to celebrate others, I would try to impress them with something nice. One time, Blooky made a mix CD for me, entirely without me knowing. It was pretty bad. I liked it.
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Take it and do with it what you like, then. I won't be coming anywhere near it.
[Take his birthday so thoroughly, that it has nothing to do with him and he can just ignore the whole thing.
Though oblivious to any desires for a bite (or several; there was rarely just one), Emet-Selch would not be surprised by it. Nor would he ever think of discouraging the impulse, neither of the biting, nor of the taking of his blood. Both experiences had become... pleasant. Both the rush of pain and the thought of the accompanying drain. Perhaps even the drain itself when Mettaton took enough for him to notice the distinct way it felt as it was being pulled from him. The idea of filling his Bonded up that way, coupled with the sight of the resulting wounds left on his own body- was something that not-infrequently occurred to him.
But any chance of thinking about that now is deflected by the rest of Mettaton's reply. The first part was as expected- the kind of gifts one would get from adoring fans, and though by their nature impersonal, the Ascian doubted that the idol would scorn them. For a love of the attention, a receiving of adoration that was only to be expected- but also an appreciation of their feelings expressed.
But it's the second part that gets his attention, and it softens him a little to think about. That the morose and depressive ghost would still manage to find the energy to put something together for their cousin. And of course Mettaton would appreciate it, regardless of the gift's actual quality- because it was for him, because someone important cared enough for him to try. That Mettaton would choose to disclose this moment to him at all, while knowing how reticent he was of his past- also mattered.
It takes him some moments to reply.]
Your cousin must care for you a great deal.
[And how awkward it inevitably would be, when he revealed who he was to them. It was the sort of thought that has him want to pull the idol into an embrace, to press his face to his throat.]
I don't think I could ever match something so earnest... but I suppose I'll have to try to find you something appropriate when the season turns.
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It reminds him a little of how the Ascian would tell him not to get accustomed to the look of surprise on him when in reality, Mettaton relishes it all the more for how frequently he can pull it from him. And so he dedicates himself to surprising him and keeping his attention, something he glares harder at his device for until he levels his gaze with the nightlife unfolding before him. Why is he here... and not where his Bonded is?
He rises to his feet in that moment, incensed and alert and excited, before he gets the next reply.
It softens him in turn. The acknowledgement that the ghost he left behind cares for him so is a bittersweet note, and it feels like too long ago since he's seen them. He saw Napstablook in a memory, but he also saw them right before he showed up here... Those are points to hang onto. He wonders if he'd see them here. If he could introduce Emet-Selch to them — after, of course, awkwardly coming clean once and for all.
And how awkward it would be. Mettaton feels less uncertain about it right now, compared to some months ago. He can't begin to figure out why, not in this moment, especially when his focus is shifted back to the Ascian's sentiments. Mettaton so quickly shifts from ravenous and passionate to tender and infatuated when it comes to Emet-Selch. For his Bonded to have such dramatic sway over his emotions... He feels he met someone very special in him.]
I'm not concerned about you matching anything, darling. So don't worry about that. I have faith in you for what you have a mind for.
[Mettaton has no expectations, but a bar of standard. He's neither easy nor difficult to impress, but affected nonetheless. Emet-Selch's wondering about comparing to his cousin in itself is endearing.]
How about you? Did you commonly celebrate your real birthday? As opposed to my mercurial one.
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--But it had faded just as quickly back and- Emet-Selch wasn't entirely certain if he'd imagined the whole thing. If he'd just been caught up in his idea of Mettaton's disapproval and passion, as well as to how it could fade back into tenderness just as easily. With just a few words of genuine sentiment, a memory invoked.]
Well, we'll see. 'Tis not an effort that I've regularly indulged in.
[And yet here he was, desiring to do unnecessary things. But he knew that Mettaton's relationship with his cousin was different than his relationship with the Ascian; there was no competition there. But he did want to please him. Or at the very least, not disappoint.
While he'd always known that Bonding with the puca was bound to be troublesome, he hadn't expected this to be one of the ways.]
And I'm sure it will come as no great surprise that I did not. My lack of interest in it was not unusual, however- with as long-lived as we were, any individual year might as well have been a day or an hour: so numerous as to be made mundane.
Moreover. It wasn't frowned on exactly... but to be so individually-invested was not a commonplace desire.
[It doesn't even occur to him to specify that this all applied to Amaurot alone. The idea of celebrating anything after the sundering would've been absurd.]
So with no tradition for it, I'm sure you can see why I'll continue in my lifetime of apathy to the bitter end.
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How did Emet-Selch deal with it... It makes more sense yet to read that being "individually-invested," or wanting to stand out, wasn't commonplace. He nods to himself. No wonder they didn't appear to care for fashion! No wonder even architecture was formed with such resonant harmony, not one building vying for attention over another! He's contrasting with human cities he's seen in movies with their advertising splendor and bright lights, all things Mettaton... likes... and did not see in Amaurot. It was closer to the towering pressure he wanted than Aefenglom, far closer to the city strips he'd dreamed of, but quite different. Orderly. Beautiful. Elegant. And Mettaton thought that if he were unleashed in such a city, he'd have a hard time figuring out which building was which. Lacking individuality.
He hums thoughtfully. They're not talking about cities, though. Though an undercurrent of possessiveness remains, he remains in a more thoughtful state than a fervent one.]
Then... I'll ensnare you in my own captivation for such investment. I think you can break your streak of apathy a little... and celebrate a birthday. Something exciting to occupy one of those mundane days or hours! An indulgence, yes.
[Even if he's sure Emet-Selch isn't inclined toward being so center stage, it's not like it has to be like that. That may be Mettaton's thing, but he acknowledges their differences. Even if it were just himself, he would be content celebrating Emet-Selch.
Already, Mettaton brainstorms "good ways to celebrate Emet-Selch." A lack of desire for material goods, it would be easy for Mettaton to deliver his sentiment through means of expression. He knows already there are other things he could give him any day, but things made special by dedicating them upon him specifically for a day. Mettaton's aim is always to impress, and he has no doubt he could. He's nothing if not confident in his ability to inspire.]
You wouldn't protest to my want to celebrate you, would you? As I am invested in you, after all...
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Mettaton's insistence on giving any sort of attention to a birthday still pulls a continued frown from him, directed at the watch, as though that would make any more of a difference compared to directing it at Mettaton directly. It was fine for the robot to be interested in things like that for himself- considering how captivated he was by mortal habits, it was to be expected, and who else would care about the recording of years?- but why inflict it on someone uninterested?
While on one hand, he could appreciate Mettaton's desire for appreciation of him. It was warranted, of course. But on several other hands (somehow) he resisted the concept entirely.]
Anything that you would call exciting I doubt I would want to get anywhere near of. So yes- I would protest.
[Though he can guess that Mettaton would try to take his preferences into account, and that it wouldn't be a wholly terrible experience, but that doesn't make him like the idea that much more. He'd tolerate it if it happened, but--]
Besides. It seems a morbid thing to celebrate. An accruing of years in this place... knowing that it shall never be reflected elsewhere. No, I still want no part in that.
[Time could only keep ticking over for him here. He already spent enough time dwelling on that, he didn't care to devote a specific day to doing nothing else.]
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Mettaton's easy mood is challenged by what he reads, and that spark of aggression returns in him as he smiles maliciously at his device, ears swiveling, angling, flicking. It's not that Emet-Selch would protest — that's fine. If he were really so reluctant, Mettaton would be glad to reduce his celebratory efforts into something compact, a token of his appreciation for being that he thinks would be agreeable to the Ascian. Meeting in-between. No, what incites his ire is, once again, the assertion that time spent here has no meaning elsewhere.
And his aggression is difficult to channel into anything productive, given how uncertain it all continues to be. But he's agitated all the same. He marches onward, in the direction of his Bonded. People part for the tall robotic Puca, his stride so long, so fast, so unstoppable and regarding nothing in his path that he might just stomp someone flat if they didn't yield to him.
Nobody agitates him quite like Emet-Selch does.]
You don't have any surefire proof of that, darling. We've gone over this.
You'll find it reflected elsewhere. It'll haunt you. I'll haunt you. Always. You won't be able to stop thinking about me, and these years you spend with me. You'll be hooked. I'll make sure of it.
[He writes it like slamming his thumbs on his keys... He scarcely thinks about it, emotion high. But he adds on quickly, emotions still high and the smell of the air striking him suddenly (smells, tastes, senses he doesn't want to forget even if he loses them),]
Yes. Your time here matters. Significantly. You'll leave with me yourself, you know. Your impact.
[Mettaton is hellbent on remembering, after all, which he has no say in doing. He considers that a form of reflection. He considers then that he'll remember how much Emet-Selch plays his nerves, and how much he loves him for it.]
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But Mettaton's mood comes across loud and very clear in his reply- a response that has his eyes narrow, manner tense and contained. While the robot might well trample anyone careless enough to get underfoot, the Ascian is still, the grip he has on his watch tight. There's energy, certainly, but with nothing even resembling an outlet for it.
It was a strange thing to be so agitated, perhaps even angry- to have that even be laced with his usual bitterness and petty spite- but to not actually despise Mettaton for it at all. It was a delicate balance to strike, a knife-edge of precision, to incite to emotion but not cruelty. To frustration but not resentment. And even in his current state, he loved him for managing it.]
And you have no more proof that we'll remember aught.
[It's not that he wanted to deny his impact. Nor to refuse it or refute it; even as he expected to lose it, he'd demand that it remain. For Mettaton to carve himself so deeply that they'd never be rid of each other. He wanted this; there was no question of that. So long as they remained there, there would be no cutting free.
So long as they remained here. Sometimes he could ignore it; sometimes Emet-Selch thought he was getting better at accepting it, either to focus on what Mettaton could give him here, or to believe in him impossibly. But sometimes, like now, he wondered if it was less acceptance and more denial, an avoidance of topics that called to mind the futility of what they both wanted.
Or perhaps he was just agitated in general, or drawing off of Mettaton's own unsettled state, latching onto a topic easy to twist despairing.]
So long as we're here- yes. I'll never be free of you. You'll never be rid of me. You can carve it down to the bone if you like, drain me of all that I'll ever have here- and here is all we'll ever have.
[And that meant it didn't matter.]
Nothing will remain.
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His pace is even, the sound of his footsteps a rhythm unstoppable to his own ears, the tempo of a quickened heartbeat if he were to have one. No outlet indeed, and no way to confirm a thing, Mettaton's forced to acknowledge that there may be no remembering (for most people; he's still decided that he's exempt from all of the rules). But that means that Emet-Selch could forget him, and he realizes he dislikes that.
In his irritation, he denies the very possibility. He grips onto that tether between them with all of his might, letting it determine his course so that he could trace it back to his lover, do exactly what Emet-Selch wrote: carve to bone, drain him completely, and surpass here. He can't whittle his already pinpointed annoyance down into words, feeling it would only do to let likewise sharp claws and teeth do all of the expressing for him. Thoughts could be communicated by way of manner, by way of action and expression: dance, gesture, violence, sex, affection. All of it at once.
Mettaton hates that he has no proof to the contrary.
So even in his trek, he adapts. He may be determined to find Emet-Selch (at whatever place he's calling residence for the night, his Puca-derived ability to track things down a boon), but he tries to figure out how else he could approach this. If they forget everything, if there is no record of it, all scars removed and no physical evidence remaining on Emet-Selch's body regardless of Mettaton's care to establish it...
His device comes back out, though he doesn't slow.]
I bit you raw in our dreams, and you woke without sign of it. However, it happened. Each time you lay claim to my body, each time it disappears from transformation or to silicone... I know of it. Nothing changes that we have everything of each other. Even if it's only here, by some chance... Even were it forgotten. It's here.
More importantly, I'm going to have you right now, gorgeous. Whether I'm right or not, it would be a shame not to occupy myself with what I love and adore in this moment! You do know how to provoke me so completely... Unlike any other.
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And for a moment he's tempted. Not out of any actual want to escape, but because he could. Out of spite, or a similarly petty demand to be chased. His pulse lifts, and it's almost as if he can feel the way his blood ran quicker through his veins, as though it knew what was coming for it should he choose to remain, should Mettaton catch up with him. Because there was no question of what would happen: the sinking of teeth, the tearing of flesh, the slickness and heat of blood escaping the insufficient confines of his body. A feeling he could hardly get enough of, to capture Mettaton's attention completely, to feel that focus writ messily onto his skin and beneath it. A connection he longed for, a proof he needed endlessly applied, that they belonged to one another--
And yet the impulse remained to flee. To spite himself, to prove some point he's not even sure of. It's enough to have him stand- even pace in a terse arc around the tastefully appointed confines of his room- the room he held at Mettaton's house, specifically, one of those times he was in his own, rather than his lover's.
He can tell the puca's closing in, even if he can't tell precisely how far off he is, how much time he has remaining. It's an anticipation that only adds to his agitation. But in his indecision, he's distracted by answering.]
It's here, for as long as we are. What then, what afterward? If we both forget if there's nothing left
[A statement he can't even complete, making an annoyed sound as he unintentionally sends it in his rush. It's followed almost immediately by another.]
You should hurry, then. Before I decide to spend this night elsewhere.
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Mettaton may be wearing heels, but he has the same power behind his legs granted to him by transforming into a Puca at all, something of an interesting, welcome change, despite their distortion in appearance. He's so fast now, his legs have such substance, and it's a rush just to use them at all when he's this wound up. It's even a rush to know that his Bonded remains, that they're both keyed up and agitated by their circumstances, both of them knowing the same thing yet contending for either side of the issue.
If Mettaton couldn't feel Emet-Selch's emotions clear as day through their Bond, he'd be able to tell in his erratic manner of typing. But even his own mood is clear: his decision, his desperation, his assertion, his possessiveness and his craving. All the idol's adoration manifest.
He's a lot faster when running, making it easy to clear distance from Entertainment District to Haven. He takes shortcuts over buildings - they're nothing to his ability to jump them and his inability to hurt himself in the process - and it's no time at all until he kicks in his own front door, caring little for trying the knob. (He fortunately only breaks it a little.) Mettaton closes it (to the best of his ability), marches up the stairs on steely steps marked by the click of heels, and opens Emet-Selch's door.
He closes it behind him, and locks eyes with his lover's figure. All at once, that flinty coldness to his golden eye ignites into passion, and he crosses the room for him in a matter of strides.]
Hades.
[Mettaton's voice is modulated and firm when he says his name, but low enough for it to be just for his ears as he stands before him. A deliberate use of his name as he confirms what he savors having of him. He pulls Emet-Selch close and... simply presses his forehead to his, first. He tips their noses, closes his eye, loves him and breathes in his presence. It's heavy and heartfelt, the product fondness. Mettaton smiles softly.
Should there be no protest, he slips down to his neck and snaps his teeth into flesh in with a voracity, shuddering and sighing into the heady feeling of his Bonded's magic signature. A long-awaited treat, the feeling of his Bond's soul so close, his body warm and alive in his arms, his blood hot and his favorite thing to taste. His arms pull Emet-Selch so close to his waist that he may very well be lifting him off the floor slightly.]
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Pacing paused at the distinctive slam of a door being kicked open, all of the Ascian's restlessness continues to build in the face of losing even that meager outlet of movement. This would be his last chance to leave for a time, to put off the inevitable for no reason at all, and for all that he didn't want to, the idea remained, intrusive. A long-ingrained habit towards making things worse was a hard thing to override, the spell in his thoughts, his fingers digging into his palms as he fought back the instinct to escape.
When his own door opens, he freezes in place entirely, as though he were the one with the puca-instinct towards stillness. Only his voice remains, gaze locked upon his lover's face. How familiar he'd become to him, and how welcome the sight of him was. All of that tension and aggression and hurting remained, but the accompanying tenderness was unmistakable.]
Mettaton.
[An acknowledgement. A breath let out as Mettaton closes in on him. His own eyes slip shut as their foreheads touch, at the brush of their noses together, at the brush of their souls close together. This much was as it should be. A sense of belonging that in itself brought an ache; he was trapped, just as he'd wanted from the start.
Emet-Selch knows what's coming when Mettaton's head dips lower, his action so natural that he tenses no further at it. If anything, there was a sense of relief of finally having his lover's teeth in his neck, where they should be, his cry choked off into a hissing inhalation. The sharpness, the rightness of it all brought with it a form of clarity, as though the only way he could be certain of anything in his life was when he could feel Mettaton tearing into his flesh, mouth filling with blood. When he could feel arms crushing him against an unforgiving body, his own the only one able to yield.
It felt like Mettaton could scoop him up entirely like this, with his greater height and machine-led strength. It already felt like his breath was being pushed from his lungs, with no chance given to collect any more- a feeling he only attempts to enhance by the way his own arms wrap around the puca's body. They tighten; his fingers claw for purchase against metal and across fur, to touch, to hold, to push him ever closer. To drive him deeper into his neck with a need, a demand. If the idol was going to threaten his balance, he could have it, as he locks a leg around his, to further reduce space, to further feel him.
To be convinced. That they would remain, that they would remember, that all of this meant a damn even if they did not. To be convinced, over and over, carved into so many times until he had nothing left with which to deny it. Even then, it wouldn't be enough; even then he'd still want him, from the firmness of jaws and sharpness of claws, to the softness and love that went with them.]
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This simply means he can devote his energy entirely to ravishing him rather than hunting him.
Blood seeps between his teeth and drains into his mouth. He's gotten good at forming his lips around his bite to reduce the amount of loss, so wanting of his Bonded's blood as he is. His ears perk up, though there's a contentedness to them in their angle, in how they lean and swivel to pick up sounds from his Bondmate over all else. Feeling even his leg locked with his, Mettaton nuzzles into his bite, agitating it, ushering forth a greater gush — has he hit something good already? There's so much...
He sucks; it's a relief beyond measure. He couldn't begin to cough on all of the blood he has in his throat, given that he has no need to breathe, but he swallows and swallows, pleased by its abundance. Mettaton groans into his bite, realizing that he'd been wanting this taste for... days. Ever since he last had his fix of the Ascian, even though it hasn't been long. How stressed he's been, how frantic and agitated, and how immediately Emet-Selch's life serves to ameliorate his troubles, a cure to his anxieties. He is his solace where he can't have one, and his next sigh is crossed with the notes of pleasure and desperation both. And now that he has it, it's a wonderful bite of him, he thinks. One he could suck on for a time, with how plentiful a supply it is. (Perhaps MTT isn't considering any danger to his Emet-Selch. How much is too much? Mettaton doesn't know of such a thing.)
Adjusting his hold on his lover, one of Mettaton's flexible arms winds entirely around Emet-Selch's middle as the other crosses over his back, gripping down onto his ass as he comfortably takes a share of gravity from the Ascian. The idol tugs him as close as he can, shifting his hip into Emet-Selch's leg to form his body against his where he knows it'll give way to his own. Pressing as completely to him as possible as he sucks rapturously upon his injury.
He can only show him he has him in this moment, but this moment has expanse. The uncertainty of their return, should it come, should it be cruel... Whenever it is, it's not now, and now is always happening. Mettaton's upset begins to dissolve with him in his arms: there's nothing to worry about. Emet-Selch is securely in his grip, and surely his loss would feel like danger. He feels nothing of the sort.
This reassurance in place, Mettaton sighs again into his neck, adjusting his lips once more when he feels blood seep from the corner of them. He shudders, even as he remains stable. He swallows again breaking free and sighing long and hard against his skin.
Mettaton kisses him where a bruise blooms around punctures. He bleeds copiously. He shivers again, the smell overwhelming him, intoxicating him. All of his pleasure to have his Bonded so close is immense, and he feels he possesses him all the more for his delight. With a voice deeper and thicker, painted awash in the blood in his throat and the love he harbors, Mettaton speaks against his throat.]
Ah... Y-You didn't tense, darling... I can tell...
[His sharpened teeth slipped through him so readily. It makes him want more.]
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It was just the suddenness of the drain, he assumed; Mettaton hadn't taken this much this quickly before. As deep as the wound on his chest had been (and still was, as it was yet reluctantly healing), necks were an easier access point for the fluid. From the last time, he'd perhaps he'd felt a touch weaker afterward, but that was the natural result of injury. And this- this was just the abruptness; he'd adjust, he was certain.
His breath is quicker; he swallows heavily. His fingers knead slowly into Mettaton, trying to think more on the press of his hip and the tie of their legs, on the familiar hold on his ass, but it was a faded backdrop to the blood. His heartbeat. That specific sort of pulsing; his lover's lips against the wound.]
I... ah--
[It's not a distracted note (how could he be distracted from all of this?) or even precisely a disoriented one, but it takes a few moments to gather his concentration, to apply them to words. His pulse was thready and so quickened; he wondered how easily Mettaton could feel it, each moment squeezing that bit more life from him. With the puca's mouth less-effectively covering the wound in order to speak (but not to breathe; a robot's body had its advantages, he thought... he would require no breaks from him) he can better feel the way it not only welled up, but flowed past. Wetness uncaught by lips pours down his neck to soak into fabric. A deep red scent that was not uncommon these days.]
Perhaps I'm getting used to it.
[A healthy response to develop, surely: a complete lack of alarm to incisors slicing into his throat. But how could he be at all troubled, knowing what effect his blood had on his lover? Mettaton had been so anxious ever since they'd returned from the underground, and to know he could sooth him like this, if only for a time... it filled him with affection for him. And if Emet-Selch were likewise soothed by the connection, the sensation made it that much harder to think about inevitable losses. Much harder to think in general, but particularly about that; how could anything be forgotten when they were so full of each other? A trading of blood for open wounds, a connection so natural it sets him shivering.]
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