[It's so sad to feel such flickering of him through their Bond, with his Bonded's otherwise remarkable soul... And at first, he feels he'd admit that it's better than the nothingness. At least it's something. But as the hours go by, he realizes that the pitiful sign he has of Emet-Selch's life felt through their Bond is indicative of a true lack rather than the connection just being shut down, as it did months back, and that thought terrifies him somewhat. How could that be better when it's that much closer to losing him? Which one is worse? He dislikes it all, never wanting to feel his soul fade.
There's no better option, he decides, except one of them could be immediately fatal.
Yet his heart kept beating. It's a relief every time, even when it's faint and struggling. He wondered at some point if he should be bringing him somewhere for proper medical attention, but he can't bring himself to move his hand, and he can't ever think of where to go. He wishes he knew who healed Emet-Selch before... They seemed to be good at it, he thought. Mettaton doesn't know anybody who heals. He wonders if the Coven could help, if he could only bring him there.
So he hopes this works. A part of him starts to make plans, just in case he doesn't rouse or it starts to look unstable, because he won't let Emet-Selch die, even if Mikasa were to tell him he was a lost cause — he's seen her give up before, and she was wrong. He feels like he could stop his death no matter what sometimes, and at others, he feels very incapable of it.
But he comes back. It's hard to tell at first, with his own voice smoothing over the gradual strengthening of Emet-Selch's magical signature, but evening's well into night. Mettaton's fingers are smoothing over his brow, moving to trace over his lips; running over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose. And it's then that he speaks. Mettaton gasps, halting in his reverent tracing as he shifts impossibly close, overwhelmed with emotion.]
Hades...
[The Ascian's eyes open then. Mettaton catches his visage from the side, just as he has all evening, and it's dim in the room but he can see him quite clearly. The relief he feels may just overpower all else, seeing him stir to some manner of alertness.
The idol is the one to come closer, making sure that Emet-Selch doesn't have to. He keeps his hand pressed to the wadded fabric against his neck, moving so that his face should come into view without any further effort on his Bondmate's part — save for the trouble of having to focus on him at all. His free hand rests against his cheek as Mettaton smiles down on him, ears nearly back and brow knit in concern.
They couldn't really do what Mettaton wants, since TV doesn't exist. Movies don't exist. But having Emet-Selch return his words at all has Mettaton elated, desperately so. When he laughs, it's laden with emotion: the relief of hearing his Bonded after fearing for worse and worse situations. That he might never wake, or that he'd die... Any manner of scenarios cropped up in that head of his, extreme or not. He didn't know what to think.]
I'm glad to hear it... Really.
[Less that he might like his date fantasy, and more at the sound of his voice at all, no matter its quality. His thumb strokes over his cheekbone, thankful for all of the work his body's putting forth to recover. It's so much relief to know that he's alive (even if he'll only die when he returns home; Mettaton's thinking about this very moment over all else) that it weighs his very being down, a hope assuaging despair so thoroughly that the whiplash causes the robot to tear up. He can only imagine how Emet-Selch must be feeling: disoriented, aching, weak... But he hopes desperately that he doesn't feel alone or lost.
When Mettaton realizes too late that tears have slipped onto Emet-Selch's neck (the other, unaffected side), he gasps. Then, he hisses:]
Oh! Shit, no—
[He hastily wipes the tear from his neck with the blanket that covers him. ... His tears are perfectly benign, though Mettaton imagines that they must be acidic, proof of how infrequently he cries. (Proof that this robot can cry at all?) At least it snaps him out of crying at all. But Emet-Selch is fine, at least with regards to burning. Unless he can't tolerate robot fluid any more than he already does.
With that dealt with, Mettaton closes his eye and tries to pull himself together with a soundless sigh.]
Ah... How are you doing, darling? Will you... Are you all right?
[At first, all he really does see is shifting colors, shapes. A sight that only serves to disorient him further, and he nearly closes his eyes against it with a pained sound before it steadies slightly. Enough to give his reluctant vision time to focus, gradually bringing his lover's face into hazy recognition. It's still not clear, not sharp, but he's certain it's him. He can recognize his relief, as though he couldn't also feel it through Bond, the emotion nearly drowning him anew. Emet-Selch still couldn't understand why, couldn't yet remember what had happened, but it was a relief he shared somehow. For seeing him again?
He wanted to raise his hand to touch Mettaton's face, but he can't quite manage it. There's actually nothing 'quite' about it, there's a feeble twitch to his arm that hardly signals his intent for anything, and nothing else. But at least he could see him, could feel the touch to his own face- so soft and deliberate and loving, and more of a balm than anything else could be.
It takes Emet-Selch a moment to recognize the wetness hitting his skin, bewildered nearly as much at the feeling as he is at Mettaton's frantic rubbing it away, as though he thought it might hurt him.... He'd never seen the robot cry before, and in that moment he was afraid again. Whatever had happened had been serious enough to warrant both this upset and relief, and his fluttering, overworked heart speeds yet again. His own vision becomes blurry, and for a second he nearly panics, thinking he's losing hold of his own grasp of consciousness- but it's just a few of his own tears spilling over, and he doesn't entirely know why. The awareness that he might've died, that he'd been brought uncomfortably close to it so suddenly- hasn't quite reached his thoughts, but the feeling is there. A reason to be so unsettled.
What had happened? Mettaton's question has him trying to think back on it, on what had led to this state, to why he felt so weak and sick and empty. He'd been messaging the idol, yes- plans were made, of dubious but necessary intent. And then they'd- not argued, exactly, but were in disagreement again. Heatedly, agitatedly so, if not angrily. It was never like that... and then he was waiting for Mettaton to reach him, and- and that was it. The rest was a blank, at least for now.
As though to defend itself from further discomfort, his few thoughts kept being deflected back onto what he'd caught of Mettaton's date imaginings. Something so calm and normal and safe.... And that he wanted to do something nice with him, to just have his company- that it was something worth appreciating, and so, so very easy to lose. Could he have slipped away with so little warning? Not even through disappearance, but--
Emet-Selch doesn't shake his head (just the thought of it made him dizzy), but he does close his eyes, breath shuddering. And just as soon opens them again; as much as it hurt to see, to focus, the reassurance of what he could see was worth it.]
No. [He swallows heavily; he still needed time to piece things back together.] Not- not particularly. I don't- what happened?
[There were details to pick up on, even if the memory remained a blur. The strong scent of blood. His own extreme fatigue, that any attempt to turn his head hurt, both inside and out. There was fabric bunched up against one side of his neck, and his legs were strangely elevated. He was still clothed so they hadn't had sex yet, and he had an additional blanket on top of that. He still felt clammy.
He couldn't quite put the obvious conclusion together yet, only that something had gone wrong somewhere. He twitches, longing to pull himself still closer, to bury his face against Mettaton and breath him in- breathe in something other than blood.]
[It doesn't surprise the Puca to hear that Emet-Selch isn't all right after all, but he's glad to hear it come from him. He'd only just roused from... who knows what sort of arduous process the body goes through to restore itself, and he has more to recover. Yet still, Mettaton fears that if he unhands his neck at all that he'll spring another leak and fall unconscious again. (Wounds can clot. He knows this, logically. It doesn't stop his fears. Too much is at stake.)
Seeing Emet-Selch tearing up in response to his own feelings, an overwhelming concoction of sentiment shared between them, has Mettaton wanting to pull him close and smother him, but he resists. He's not well, and doing that would only make it worse. The robot shifts in place to cope with the desire to kiss him breathless — his Bonded's already struggling with dizziness. Instead, he leans in and kisses his forehead; his temple; the corner of his eye; his cheek. His hand moves to wipe at tears, to remove one more source of liquid to be left cold on his face as he hums thoughtfully, pulling together his composure. Mettaton pulls back, but he remains in Emet-Selch's sights as he sidles his thigh against Emet-Selch's side. (Mettaton hasn't spared the moment to take his heels off, in all of this...)
It's not that he's no longer worried. Just seeing Emet-Selch rouse makes him feel leagues better, but his concern remains. His alertness brings him solace and strength, but his condition's poor, and he wants to keep him safe. (Turns out that Mettaton was the danger.)]
I... You must not remember. [Memory has a funny way of being unreliable like this, he's found. He can't blame Emet-Selch. He has trouble remembering things after a good shut-down, though it usually comes back to him afterward. He imagines it might be the same for the Ascian.] I bit you. I think I bit you too hard... Or maybe in the wrong place.
[Or maybe a combination of the two. Wrong place, just a bit too hard. He looks regretful and sheepish both, glancing at the wad of cloth he's kept pressed to Emet-Selch's neck for... hours.]
You asked me to go to bed. Once we got there, I kept drinking. It was bleeding so much... Too much. [... An unfortunately drool-worthy amount, even when it fills Mettaton with dread. Contradictory feelings. He swallows.] I didn't realize it, until you were passing out. ...Does that jog your memory, darling?
[It's not an excuse. Mettaton's thought about it while he was out cold: he'll figure out more concretely how to deal with bodies like this so that neither of them have to worry. So that they can do whatever they like, without running such risk. He doesn't want to treat Emet-Selch to this manner of suffering. His thumb strokes at his cheek some more, paying close attention to the signs his lover exhibits as he fixes his gaze upon his face again.]
I thought...
[Mettaton swallows again. He worried Emet-Selch would be in critical condition, but he doesn't want to unsettle him right now. He probably already knows, besides. Mettaton sighs and shakes his head, resolving not to ever let Emet-Selch come close to death.]
It's been a few hours since then. Do you need anything right now?
[Is he supposed to hydrate his Ascian after he loses so much blood? Once more, Mettaton is not completely aware of the needs of his body. He thinks that he'll need water, probably. His best guess.]
[Emet-Selch just listens at first, and watches; he doesn't even nod to show his comprehension (or what passed for it) at Mettaton's explanation, but he does manage a soft sound in his throat at the kisses pressed to his face. Even more barely does he lean into them, his breathing still not wholly steady, and it's hard to tell if it's from sentiment or this new fragility of his body. The more Mettaton touched him, the more his body kept trying to tear up, even as the wetness was being cleaned away. An absurd use of his limited fluids, he thought... and he tries to pull himself together a little. He can't waste what Mettaton had managed to save for him.]
I think... I could hear you sometimes.
[This is, for some reason, something Emet-Selch decides he needs to express first. Confusion still lurks, disorientation his new companion, causing his thoughts to drift. But this is the memory he hits on initially. If it even was a memory, and not another delusion, the sparks of a dying mind piecing together something he wanted to hear--]
Have I ever said- that I like your voice. [This was the point he needed to say, apparently. His gaze becomes unfocused, distracted; his tone is soft, drifting.] I don't know. I might've imagined it.
[Blinking in his reverie, this time he does risk shaking his head, if only slightly; the stabbing ache in his neck seemed to support Mettaton's claim of a particularly deep bite, and he takes a shaky breath. What had Mettaton been saying again, in his lovely voice? An explanation of events. Emet-Selch had no idea what his Bonded had been doing during his unconsciousness apart from taking care of him. Ensuring that he was as warm as possible, that he didn't bleed out to the last. It didn't matter that the puca had been the cause of the injury, of reducing him to this state. Of actively pulling more blood from what would've naturally flowed from the wound. After all--]
--I told you- to drain me completely. I think. It... sounds like you nearly made it.
[A sentence muttered in a rushed exhalation, a hint of exasperation entering his voice. He wasn't upset- not in any sort of casting-blame sense, anyway. Only unnerved by the experience, yet- finding it strangely comforting to have the opportunity to at all express that unease, that uncertainty, that weakness. He was in company where he could do so, where he didn't have to pretend that he was fine, didn't have to force a defense.
With effort, he manages to move an arm, to let his hand brush against Mettaton's at his face. He was ill, there was no getting around that, but he wasn't dying, and his lover was here. Things weren't exactly great, but he would be fine. They both would be. But he could see Mettaton's fear; he could feel it, and he felt sick to think about what it must've been like to observe him like this. The helplessness, the panic- at seeing someone much cared for fading out before you.
They had to learn how to do this more safely; he didn't want to put his Bonded through that again....]
Water. [His various replies are all disjointed, thoughts skipping from one avenue to the next, and forgetting how to bridge separate concepts. But he was thirsty. Dreadfully so, now that he was aware of it; the stabbing headache was no doubt in part due to severe dehydration.] That would- help.
[It wasn't a replacement for blood, but it was a necessary component for continued living.]
[How sweet Emet-Selch is, always. When he's weakened like this, he's just more forthright with it — there are no defenses he can rely on, making him all the more worth protecting in this state. He gets this way around Mettaton sometimes. He only wishes that it were under less morbid circumstances that he could hear him pay him such a compliment. Of course he'd love his voice — and Mettaton loves his in turn.
Like the other compliments he's paid him, it's one that touches him deeply — especially knowing he'd heard him. He swells with pride, love, and relief, and he nods.]
I was talking to you! You weren't imagining it, gorgeous. I'm glad you heard me...
[He's very excited at having been heard and in his thrill, he leans in to kiss Emet-Selch next to his lips. He rubs his nose to his with a short, airy laugh, both at the pleasure to have been perceived at all, and at the acceptance of his compliment. It meant that maybe, Emet-Selch had something to hold onto in his lonely subconscious. The pads of his fingers rub at his face in small circles, careful to keep claws from digging in at all while he tries to come down from his roller coaster of emotions, jumping from despair to relief to fear to sorrow to this blithe euphoria. Glad to be here, glad Emet-Selch is, too.
And he has to simper at Emet-Selch's exasperation. He sure did that... attempt to drain him so thoroughly, as though trying to leave nothing behind to lose. His ears don't quite fold back, but they do fall, and they posture at either side of his head almost in the direction of a lop's. At feeling the Ascian's fingers reach for his, he captures them between his own and holds his hand, though it's the back of his hand to Emet-Selch's palm.
Emet-Selch's free to show the whole of himself, and Mettaton expects as much. Mettaton demonstrates in turn his excessiveness to its fullest degree. There's little he can do to return his blood to him... It's his, and it's always been his, but he acknowledges that he went overboard. Terrifyingly overboard, sedated into feeling all was fine.
He could elaborate some more on that matter upon his return, as his ears spring to attention at Emet-Selch's request. He nods. Mettaton feels validated for predicting what he might need. Maybe he's not so bad at understanding Emet-Selch's needs after all, as a creature of flesh and blood. His fingers pet Emet-Selch's cheek, and he realizes that he's still holding onto his neck...]
Ah.
[It's palpable, how quickly Mettaton chills through their Bond, as though his heart sunk. He shifts, uneasy.]
I... can get you water. Will you be able to hold this? Against your neck.
[Mettaton doesn't even consider that it might be safe to pull it off. That maybe he could switch to bandages, in fact. He just keeps imagining that he'll keep holding this for all of these moments, into infinity, for however long it's necessary to feel reassured that Emet-Selch won't just bleed out again.]
[Mettaton's clear pleasure pleases him in turn, and though it's a less practical warmth than that of the blankets, it feels like it settles much deeper. That it hits places fabric could never (or should never) reach, and it didn't even hurt as much as it usually would. That might've been because so much of him was hurting or aching already, so his emotional state realized he was well and truly pained, and there was less need to add to it.
And though he doesn't quite hum at the outpouring of affectionate gestures (there's a sort of... hoarse sound that might've been an attempt at one, though), he appreciates them deeply. Both the feeling of contact, and the feeling of emotion that went with it- though it did strike the Ascian as a bit sad that he could rarely express these sorts of things... except under unusual circumstances. And that this time was a bit more unfortunate than most.
But he hadn't imagined him... that part was the most reassuring point of all. And Emet-Selch wondered if it had made it a little easier to surface again. To have something drawing him back... or to at least keep him company in the dark.
Company that was something other than a delusion. Perhaps he was just more susceptible in this state, but- with this reassurance applied, it felt easier to accept that this all was real. That everything he was feeling, the hurt and relief, adoration and exhaustion, all of it was happening, somehow. He was here, in this place, with this person. He could feel Mettaton's hand and his love.
--And his unease, suddenly, which he can't help but hone in on, even in his reduced condition. Whatever concentration he could manifest was for him. His neck? Ah... Mettaton was still supporting it, was still pressing a lump of fabric to it, as though his head might fall off if he let go. Emet-Selch doesn't nod, but he does shift his other arm up to feel for the material there. The pressure he can apply with his hand isn't that great, though, so he's not sure how to respond. He could touch it, but that didn't really qualify as holding it.]
A little.
[That was the appropriate qualifier, he thought. That it might be safe to remove, he doesn't know and is more than willing to accept Mettaton's impulse of It Stays There Forever, Now. Or at least until there are bandages to replace it (especially if the material has at all dried to the wound; removing it will likely tear it open again, so having something else available to take its place would be useful).]
It should be fine. [Though his tone makes a question of that statement, so he adds:] Just- don't take too long.
[But that was more because he didn't want to lose sight of him, didn't want to lose that contact, rather than any concern when it came to additional bleeding.]
[Mettaton helps to guide Emet-Selch's hand more thoroughly over the wadded pillowcase with a small smile, pressing both of his hands firmly atop his as though to impart his strength into him. He keeps his hands there, smiling at his wakefulness and pleased that Emet-Selch has the wherewithal to try, for as soft as his touch seems to be. He hopes all will be well — and he doesn't feel any danger in it, though his senses have failed him before, apparently. (They failed him tonight, having not noticed anything coming until it was already happening...)
Gingerly, he lets go, and pats the Ascian's hand for good measure, an expenditure of energy. The hand he's had pressed to the cloth is bloodied, though it's all dry at this point and it tries to stick to fabric as he trades places. Released from his duty temporarily, he nods at Emet-Selch.]
I'll be back before you know it. Just watch, and hang in there.
[Fondly, he gives him another soft caress of his cheek, another peck to his forehead — a lingering look, as though to ensure that Emet-Selch will really be fine.
But Mettaton figures the best he can do is be quick, so he hops to it.
The most unfortunate thing about a big house: having to go distances to get from place to place. Not that Mettaton's caring much for that, even though he dislikes being pried from his Bonded. For the most part, he's pleased to be fetching something for his sake, and he takes as many shortcuts as exist by dropping off the banister instead of using the stairs (too confident in himself to imagine that he could sprain an ankle now that he has any muscle at all) and skipping steps on his way back up. Water is easily obtained without distraction. He thinks to make a detour for medical supplies, and realizes that... they don't have any.
This is a house with a skeleton and a robot as the permanent residents. And unless Emet-Selch spontaneously decided to stock the place with medical supplies, they are likely to have absolutely nothing. Mettaton doesn't bother looking, choosing instead to head straight back for the room. (He'll have to make do with fabric or something, he thinks.)
Upon entering, he quickly sets a pitcher aside (thinking ahead: reducing trips to the kitchen for water, in case Emet-Selch should want more than a glass), Mettaton brings a completely nondescript glass of water (free of nitroglycerin) to the bed, sidling up next to him and offering it in a trade. He does this as he analyzes Emet-Selch's condition, thinking about his weak grip, the way he's lying down in such a way that drinking would be the same as upending water over his head...
The Puca hums.]
Do you need help, Hades, darling?
[Already, his other hand moves to prepare to assist, fingers hovering around his neck and shoulders. No matter what he needs, Mettaton will do it. He seems so weakened, after all... Could he sit up on his own? He doubts it. Could he hold a glass in his grip? He's not sure, but he'll be here to help: Emet-Selch has nothing to hide from him, after all. Mettaton softens some more, ears dropping a degree.]
[Perhaps it didn't count as danger because neither of them considered it that way until it was too late. Mettaton wanted his blood, and Emet-Selch wanted to provide it- all of it, as much as the robot could hold. It was only a flaw of mortal form that he couldn't fill the both of them up with what he contained... but they tried. And despite the consequence, when the Ascian thought of how much of himself must still be within his Bonded, it made the experience seem not a total waste. Or not a waste at all, even if they should probably not be this careless again. He still liked being bitten by him... he didn't think that would change.
And he wondered if it would scar, this bite. Emet-Selch didn't mind the thought of keeping it around, even if this memory was complicated. But weren't they all? Even the healing mark over his heart had all the associations of that day attached to it. From the failed transformations, to the sharing of tortures and everything else- there were a lot of feelings the sight of it invoked. This wound would be the same, he suspected: mixed of sentiment, but important.
His fingers tense against the pillowcase as best they can. It remained a touch unnerving how weakened he felt, but as the minutes ticked past, he could settle by degrees. He would still need a lot of sleep he knew, but there were worse prospects- and it would at least be the sleep of deliberate rest, and not a forced unconsciousness due to a sharp reduction in blood pressure. A sleep of healing.
But he nods this time when Mettaton makes his move for a temporary departure, sustained anew by all the additional attention. He would hold this pillowcase to the best of his ability and deliberately not count the moments until Mettaton returned. And he found that even when he couldn't see him, he could hear his Bonded moving- the clicking of heels on stairs, the loud thump of a heavy metal body jumping off... something. There was plenty of noise.
It's well enough that Mettaton hadn't stopped to look for medical supplies that didn't exist; the Ascian certainly wouldn't have stocked any. If for some reason any items like this ever became required, he'd trusted in his ability for conjuration to handle it. This... led to some minor problems when he was the one in need of attention, because his ability to magic up anything at the moment was minimal. It was a perfect plan otherwise, with the small caveat that he could never be the one hurt.
And then Mettaton was back, and Emet-Selch relaxes a bit of tension he hadn't noticed he'd collected, though when he's offered up the water, he pauses, wondering much the same thing as the puca. He didn't particularly look forward to sitting up, but it was the only way he'd be able to drink anything without choking, and he did need the water.]
...If you could. [He's not even about to pretend that he was capable of doing this on his own. While it might not be impossible, he considered- to painfully drag and push himself upright- it would be easier with his lover's support. There really was nothing to hide. So though his arms move, to do what they could, Emet-Selch will lean heavily into Mettaton's own grip, wincing at the changing positions. Nor does he like the way he's getting out of breath again just from this, or the lightheadedness or- much of anything about this whole process. In the end he mostly ends up clinging to Mettaton instead, eyes closed, waiting for the world to stop moving.
And once settled, the glass itself would also be safer with another hand on it; another case where it might not be strictly necessary... but it would certainly facilitate affairs. It was strange to both have someone to rely on, and be comfortable enough to accept the available help.]
[By "that", he means his neck, still worrying himself over it.
Sliding his fingers underneath Emet-Selch's neck, he realizes too late that his movement was more to achieve an end in his desire to help him sit up than it was out of any caution for his existing wounds, and he worries for a moment that he could've hurt his already damaged neck. Just how careful should he be? But it doesn't seem it did anything to hurt him. The give of pillows beneath his neck were to thank for that, since they formed around his arm more than Emet-Selch's skin.
In fact, thank anything related to pillows and pillowcases. Even if Emet-Selch accidentally lets go of the fabric Mettaton's dedicated himself to, it likely has dried to the spot: it won't move as readily as Mettaton fears, which is both a relief (mostly to ease Mettaton's irrational (?) worries about Emet-Selch bleeding out again upon its removal) and probably a sign that its intentional removal will disturb the wound somewhat. Regardless of the pressure applied to his neck, Mettaton's easily helped him sit up with an arm about the Ascian's shoulders, other hand holding the glass before him like a prize he's happy to give, though it's clear Emet-Selch needs a moment.
And so he watches him, wondering how he feels. How the hoarse quality of his voice feels in his throat, what it feels like to know he needs water, how the neck injury impacts speaking or turning his head or if it'll affect drinking — a ridiculous image in his mind's eye of water draining from the wound, even though he knows it's not that deep, not connected to this esophagus, but having the confusing thought anyway. For all of Mettaton's growing understanding of his body, it's all so curious to him, how they work. And really, he'd rather have thoughts like these - ridiculous ones that compare an injured neck to a leaky pipe - than the harrowing thoughts of crushed organs and distorted giants. This is about his lover, and his well-being.
Mettaton wonders if this level of vulnerability Emet-Selch feels ready to demonstrate before him has anything to do with having met him in a cell intended for torture. He doesn't strike him as the sort to drop his guard readily, more the sort to feel uncomfortable at the thought, and it causes his grip to tighten protectively. But then, he considers that his own feelings of being able to be so prone to Emet-Selch in spirit come from the knowledge that even if it hurts him, his Bonded can handle him. He believes that to be the case, and he smiles warmly, wishing to convey to him that he'll take him any time, no matter how he is. No matter how scary, incensed, weak, or softened he is, Mettaton wants to see every dimension of Emet-Selch. It's a natural result, to feel this close to someone he loves like this. It's mutual.
The idol facilitates Emet-Selch's lean and waits until he's ready.
His hand remains with the glass so it's not dropped in a mess all over, too, especially once he feels the lightness of the Ascian's touch. He's already anticipated as much. Mettaton's thumb strokes over Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
... This showed me something. I may have learned more about bodies like this... More than I've ever understood. However. Learning how to better care for you could only be a benefit.
[Not only in practicing emergency first aid for Emet-Selch, himself (organic form), and for anybody he chances upon, but to avoid damaging their bodies. He doesn't view them as particularly weaker than his own metal one, but with different vulnerabilities. (He truly could only learn, given that he still believes that humans can consume just about anything safely.)
This could have gone a lot worse, if he didn't ask for help. If he didn't get lucky. If Emet-Selch were in any worse condition. He can hardly fathom it.
Regarding Emet-Selch in this host of his, he imagines that normally, he should be able to vacate this body and find another. Worrying about dying like this is be a new concern for the Ascian, bound to his body as he likely is. It means he has to be extra cautious — or about as cautious as everyone else who only gets one body, which is normal levels of caution.]
For example. I didn't know that pressure would stop your bleeding... I only thought about how you tried to hold me together, in vain. That I could hold you together.
[The rest of it, he needed external advice — and even knowing that pressure was a good thing was something he learned through that conversation.]
And you probably don't need stitches. [Not even thinking about the fact that a society that can rely upon magic for healing mostly takes care of the need for stitches; just regurgitating what Mikasa could tell him.]
[It's all well and good that the pillowcase has dried to the wound; in his efforts to sit up, Emet-Selch's concentration when it comes to holding onto it falters, despite Mettaton's verbal caution. His hand remains pressed there, he can do that much, but his grip is inconsistent. Sometimes his fingers just touch it, sometimes they dig in when he remembers what they're doing there, but the fabric doesn't really shift so it works out in the end. Even if it would eventually need to be removed, it was fine to remain for the time being; not reopening the wound took precedence over finding something more appropriate to cover it.
Guiding the glass rather than taking it with his free hand, he slowly drinks from it, listening to Mettaton as he does. He takes it slowly; as desperate for water as he felt, he knew if he went too quickly, even water alone would be a difficult thing for his body to handle. So he sips at it, and thinks of his Bonded's impromptu lesson when it came to a human's physiology.
It wasn't a surprise, not really, that Mettaton had been unaware of such basic aspects of a mortal's maintenance. His anatomy studies must've been about form and some degree of correct function; the imagery he'd seen in the memories of others had covered catastrophic damage, bodies rendered unsalvagable, barely recognizable. Had he ever come across these lesser sorts of injuries before? He couldn't have.
Emet-Selch wanted to say that Mettaton's not missing much when it comes to experiencing these details of organic form, and that it was better to limit his knowledge to that of observation. There was pleasure in the pain of being bitten, sure (at least, when it came to being bitten by Mettaton), and even in a bit of blood loss, and even in a bit of satisfying aching due to exertion and aforementioned damage- but there was an upper limit to what felt good, and this had slightly passed it. His neck was stiff, his head was pounding, his pulse was still too fast, he felt shaky and sick and tired- these were not fun experiences.
But he wouldn't have been surprised if Mettaton would've wanted them all anyway, if for the novelty. For the satisfaction of it, of understanding humanity in the way one only can by wearing their flesh for more than a few hours. So the Ascian says nothing, quietly relieved that any similar-to-far-worse damage on the idol's part would be undone by a shapeshifting reversion. And his robotic form could be repaired.... He didn't want to see him hurting.
Emet-Selch just nudges against him instead, in quiet affection. Touched again that Mettaton wanted to learn how to take better care of this sort of body, in all its fragility. It doesn't surprise him, but it doesn't keep him from appreciating it.]
Not... the kindest of introductions to a mortal form's requirements, was it? Still. At least... at least you've learned something from it. Although I prefer... your previous studies of my body.
[He sighs softly against the glass, then takes a few more swallows from it. The Ascian was also continuing to learn that he should probably take better care of this host. What would happen if he died here? Would it be the same as dying in truth?]
How did you learn what to do?
[How did he know about stitches and assessing a wound for them.]
[Mettaton's glad that water doesn't seem to be too difficult for Emet-Selch to down, and his smile takes on a bit of a silly edge with a lightness to his eyes in his observation of his Bonded trying to come back from his poor health. Even most monsters could regard the act of drinking water as normal, a way to cool down, but Mettaton's further removed from that experience than them. And for humans, it's a requirement. How sad would it be to struggle more than he already is with the simple requirement of drinking? He squeezes Emet-Selch's shoulder, keeping him and the glass both stable. Wanting for him to recover, and willing to do whatever it took to facilitate that.
When Emet-Selch responds to his musings upon what he's learned, his ears droop somewhat, thinking about what sort of unpleasant method of learning this truly was. And though one could say that the two of them were complicit in Emet-Selch's deterioration (even Mettaton would agree that they both wanted this, they both wanted Emet-Selch's drain, this possession, this pleasure), he still feels a level of responsibility for his part of blissful ignorance, his true indulgence. Worse yet, for wanting more of his blood even as he sits here at his side, trying to aid in his recovery, acknowledging that were he somehow starved for his Witch's blood in this moment instead of half-filled with it, he might crave it badly enough that he'd take another bite of him if driven to low enough moods. Mettaton glances away for a moment, biting shortly at his lower lip.
Instead, he thinks about their previous... study sessions. The times Mettaton's raked his hands along the expanse of Emet-Selch's skin, kissed him from lips to hips, probed every part of his body with wandering fingertips. Even thinking about it in combination with his muted craving might well be relayed by their Bond, Mettaton knowing how transparent they both are, though it's not an indulgence he's willing to satisfy with his lover like this. A memory is fine. The remembrance of warm skin under his tongue, the give of muscle, the sound of his panting...
Mettaton drags his attention to this new kind of scenario with a soundless sigh. Exhaling heat. One of his ears flicks. He nudges back against Emet-Selch when he's not busy drinking, heated by his infatuation for him but very much in this moment and all of its ills. He nods in agreement, that he's learned, but that he prefers the less terrifying ways of learning about his Bondmate's body. Not the kinds that leave him cold and lifeless, if he could help it.
He would also have to be careful. If not learning to control himself, he's determined to learn to pace himself.
Emet-Selch's question earns a short nod from Mettaton.]
Ah. I called a friend! Her name is Mikasa. She's a human, and she's blunt, no-nonsense... but she's protective, and knows what to do. Since she's a soldier, I figured she'd know how to help in a pinch... Elevating your legs, since you were unconscious and drained. Applying pressure to your wound. I trust her.
[And she could have very well given him advice that would've broken his heart, but she didn't, so all was well and good. She didn't see that Emet-Selch would be a lost cause, but she's probably seen people survive worse. (And if he'd stayed on the line any longer, she probably would have tried to get Emet-Selch a healer. Not that Mettaton knew what she might've been up to, in his panic...)]
I asked her what to do if you lost too much blood, and she wanted to see how big the injury was...
[Mettaton doesn't at all prioritize making private their activities if Emet-Selch's health was on the line, and he doesn't even think of the impression she might've gotten from seeing a Puca bite on an unconscious person's neck atop a bed. He sure showed her that. But he got helpful advice from her, and for that, the idol couldn't be happier with it. She helped Emet-Selch, because of course she would.]
[Though it was too soon for being marginally less dehydrated to have much of an effect, Emet-Selch felt better on an emotional level just from this much. It was a sign that things were under control, were improving, were understandable and fixable. Mettaton was there and looking so pleased at him for succeeding in the arduous task of Drinking Water, and if it were anyone else, he would've felt condescended to. But instead it was endearing, that he was so invested in his well-being that he could raise his mood a little just by doing an extremely basic task (with assistance). By being relatively alert and coherent.
He would just have to keep improving then, to not worry him, to not have to see the remorse evident in his ears. Finishing with his water, he lets that hand drop, and the Ascian leans that bit more against his Bondmate, allowing himself to relax. He wished he could nuzzle him, bury his face in his neck- but that would take moving and twisting, so leaning closer is all he does for now. He wasn't sure how to express that he didn't consider this to be at all Mettaton's fault, that this was solidly a joint effort in absolute excess, so he settles for... settling, as warmly as his body could manage it.
It yet brings the briefest of smiles to his expression at the distinct sense of heat evident through Bond, clearly inspired by his mention of past studies of his form. How easily prone Mettaton was- how they both were, to each other. Even though it were a current impossibility, it was a nicer thought, and provided another measure of comfort. They weren't ignoring the current situation, the blood and the fear and how fragile it had all been, so quickly- but it wasn't as though attraction and wantings stopped being an undercurrent to their affection. Even if it couldn't be indulged in, it was soothing (and warming) to know it was there.
That Mettaton would still be wanting his blood as well doesn't quite occur to him.
And Emet-Selch only nods a little at Mettaton's mention of showing this Mikasa some sort of imagery of the injury. The Ascian didn't particularly like the idea of anyone else seeing him so weakened, unconscious, unable to defend himself, but accepted that it was necessary in the circumstances. He'd just have to trust in Mettaton's perception of his friend (and she had given him useful advice, so perhaps his judgement of her was correct).]
So you know... a few useful humans after all.
[Any concerns about propriety don't occur to him, and he wouldn't care much about them even if they did. Sure, he wouldn't have gone around displaying the implications brought by being collapsed on someone's bed with their distinctive teeth-marks in his neck, but he also wouldn't have been embarrassed by them.]
Hm... perhaps I'll have to thank her.
[For providing useful advice in part, even though he's likely to have survived regardless, with Mettaton's base instinct regarding covering the wound (and not continuing to drink from it) doing enough to save him. But it was still proper advice, and more importantly, provided the inherent reassurance of being told what to do. Of having something to do, and being able to trust that someone's assessment of what to do was correct. To not be left completely alone in his panic with his possibly-dying Bondmate. That alone was worth gratitude.]
We'll just- have to avoid requiring her... assistance again.
[Mettaton doesn't have to move from his place to set the glass on a bedside table (perks to being a robot), but he easily takes on the task of nuzzling against Emet-Selch as he sets against his body. He bends his neck, pressing his nose into Emet-Selch's hair as he twists his head, rubbing his cheek against him next in a possessive nuzzle. With his other hand now free to wander, he rests his palm against the Ascian's chest as he lets him lean against his body to the best of his ability, shifting close to make it all the more possible. Doing his best to carefully make real their mutual desire for closeness and affection.
It brings the idol satisfaction to see his Bondmate reach some level of stability, even though he can hear in his voice a stilted manner of speech, slow and mildly labored. Getting better with time. Making sense, no longer so disconnected as though only vaguely grasping what's going on around him... And what a difference, compared to how lost he was before losing consciousness, and just after waking. He wants to drag Emet-Selch close and hold him, but he's better off not being manhandled, he thinks. He's close, and he's doing better: that's what matters.
(Just after waking, however... It was preferable to just before he went under. It meant he was on the upswing, never mind how defenseless and honest he was with his thoughts and feelings. With what he liked. With his attempt to express pleasure for being in his company despite his circumstance, and it makes Mettaton feel even more affection for him as he presses his cheek into him, making sure he's thoroughly his. Making sure Emet-Selch could feel his fondness. He hums.)
Mettaton nods at the notion of thanking Mikasa. He wants to thank her, too, and she's not just a useful human, but a good-hearted one, he thinks. Assuming it's about her contribution rather than any company or reassurance she provided, because that's what Mettaton's most glad for: the practical advice that he feels made a difference. Knowing that pressure was the right thing, and that there was more he could do. (He still plans on making sure it's clean, just as she advised, but he hasn't had the heart to pull that cloth from his neck.)
Voice low, the hand Mettaton has against his chest rubs softly with his thumb.]
Agreed. You should meet her. [A pause.] And... We'll have to find additional avenues to get carried away with. Ones that don't end like this.
[Mettaton's version of an apology: the suggestion that alternative routes exist to distribute his feelings, and that he'd be willing to find them rather than resorting to carving into him so strongly with teeth. Something that satisfies the both of them, but something tenable, not something that results in this, especially when Emet-Selch starts to lose consciousness and finds himself overcome by nausea. He'll take some action. He doesn't want Emet-Selch anywhere near death.
As he sits here and grapples with the cravings he had while the other man was unconscious, smelling his blood and worried sick while wondering when he could have more of his blood again... Mettaton still doesn't think of that as a problem, just something he needs more avenues to expend. Different thrills, all manner of indulgences that could bring them both equal satisfaction without putting his Bonded at risk of bleeding out. Therefore, it doesn't make him panic to feel like he won't ever taste his blood again: he will, but not so wildly, not a gush of it that he can swallow with wild abandon. And while the thought brings him a sick delight, it also settles wrong with him to think about. If he ever felt that particular pressure and volume again, Mettaton feels sure in this moment that he'd know something was wrong.
Mettaton kisses the top of his head.]
Did you want anything else, darling? I'm thinking otherwise... you must want rest.
[Another test of his prophetic abilities (that don't work like this) — or, at least, his ability to grasp these more organic needs. Emet-Selch isn't the best he could be, and rest helps.]
[Sighing very quietly, Emet-Selch settles into the moment. Even sitting up like this he thought he might drift off; the nuzzling and petting was most soothing, and Mettaton's very presence moreso. Something so strange, and something he's not sure if he'd ever get used to- the chance to let go, if just a bit, to trust in someone enough to be at ease like this. To fall asleep without concern, despite having little capacity for defending himself. It was something he felt very fortunate to possess, even if being made more conscious of it in a moment like this was, perhaps, leaning towards the unfortunate side of things.
But he was warm and safe; he couldn't take either of those things for granted.
Even if it would've probably been better for them both for this whole incident to be avoided, the degree to which he felt looked after, cared for- the gentle side of possession- was something he still had a hard time grasping. Nearly as difficult was the awareness of love experienced to this degree, and he's not sure if the unsteadiness that he continues to feel is a result of that, or the loss of blood.
(And 'Useful' was still a reasonably-high compliment for a human from the Ascian, really. Something that any insect should be grateful for.)]
No doubt we'll find- something. Determined as we are.
[There was still an endless amount to catch up on, affections that couldn't be expressed only once. Mettaton could still take his blood, bruise and bite him (Emet-Selch didn't see the point of stopping something they both enjoyed just because of a single overindulgence), just not, perhaps, to this degree. Which only meant spreading that intensity into other aspects. No reduction in it, only more ways to express it... yes. Dying was best avoided.
(Even if 'death by amorous puca-bite' would've been a unique one for the Ascian.)
Mettaton's prophetic senses are working so well today (even if his danger sensing ones were briefly offline), as the Ascian makes a soft noise of assent at the suggestion of rest. Apart from being sore and achy, he was mostly just tired, and letting his body get on with replenishing its blood supply was probably the best thing either of them could do for him.]
And... I think sleep will suffice for now.
[Said as he attempts to shuffle back down against the mattress without losing any bit of that contact with the robot. Even if physical comfort wasn't going to be a part of his near future, he knew he'd be able to sleep regardless. He always could, and now he had a fine excuse to stay in bed for a while and not move. Truly, every encounter with Mettaton had its advantages....]
[Emet-Selch's desire for gravity to take him back down is aided by Mettaton's easing of his body, letting him gradually fall with his head against the pillow. Physical contact is lost, but he shifts around enough to rejoin and reunite with him under the covers, turning onto his side so he can curl his arm along his chest. (Continuing to forget that he's still wearing heels... They just feel like they ought to be there, really.)
He'd love to pull him in close, but there's that issue with manhandling again. He almost wonders if enough movement would cause him to feel faint again, in his currently healing state. He doesn't want to test it. Needless to say, he's content with letting Emet-Selch lay on his back.]
Sleep, then. I'll be here. Hopefully, following suit. If not, that's fine.
[Feeling the need to announce what he'll (try to) do with his time, considering most people just go to bed and sleep... But sleep is still novel to him, and he feels the need to clarify what he, a robot, will be doing with his time: lying there, or sleeping, or recharging while lying there, any manner of options. He's definitely spent some nights lying there alert while Emet-Selch slept, of course.
Feeling significantly reassured that Emet-Selch is in better form and is only bound to further recover over time, Mettaton feels he can relax — that, should anything go awry, he'll be able to tell. With another shift of his body, he tucks himself closer to his Bonded before he's possessed by the desire to kiss him on the lips. An indulgence he allows: he lifts up again to lean over his figure, brushing his lips against Emet-Selch's first as a warning before gently capturing his the other man's lips with his own.
It's a gentle, soft kiss that doesn't last long, but an expression of his fondness and relief both. A softness, an invitation to his warmth, an attempt at comforting the both of them where a bite wouldn't suffice. Yes, really... kisses are just one of those outlets they have at their disposal, he thinks, and Emet-Selch could always use more of them. He could express any manner of feeling through them, even the ones that run burning hot enough for teeth to feel like the only appropriate choice. He can imagine it, how feverish kisses would serve as the gesture he needs to convey a possessiveness, a need, an overwhelming capture of his lover. This, on the other hand, is the intent not to suffocate him. A simple kiss to show him he cares.]
[Apart from the inherent discomfort involved in moving at all, it felt better to be on his back again, the meager effort of sitting up and sort of conversing and drinking water using up what bits of stamina he'd collected. He wasn't the worse off for it; to the contrary, in a practical sense Emet-Selch could only improve with the water, but it was time to sleep more if he ever wanted to continue doing such strenuous tasks. But this was as comfortable as he could probably be right now; Mettaton settling down next to him was most congenial, as was knowing that he would remain, possibly sleeping with him. That would be nice, he thought- the robot could always use some more sleep....
But his company alone would be enough, and while he can't burrow against him to show his approval, his appreciation, the Ascian can at least lean. Can nudge, just a little. He was sure that just having him nearby would help, somehow, even if it wasn't as though Mettaton could cause his blood to regenerate any faster (and that technically, he was his greatest risk for losing more of it). But he was a reason to heal... someone concrete to heal for, some small task he could achieve for someone.
Plans for the immediate future in place, Emet-Selch's consciousness already begins to drift, until he feels a small shifting, a soft touch of lips against his own that turns into the most gentle of kisses. It's a contact that causes the quietest of sounds to form in his throat, something that's scarcely given any opportunity to escape, and not because it's trapped there by force. But it's all the Ascian can manage, his approval faint in tone but not in sentiment.
This softness was exactly what they both needed, he thought; these feelings were the ones most needed to express. Sometimes there was heat and pressure, air stolen from his lungs, noise suffocated in his chest, sometimes there were kisses pressed to all parts of either of their bodies, some firm, some wet, some accompanied by gasps or interrupted by moans. There was a lot that a kiss could encompass, and when shared with his lover, they could only be a pleasure.
But they each had their time and place, and this time only gentleness would suffice.
By the time Mettaton pulls back, his consciousness is already fading again, though the darkness that follows didn't seem quite so absolute, not so beset by confusion and fear. No, this time he knew exactly where he was, and it... it wasn't a bad place.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
There's no better option, he decides, except one of them could be immediately fatal.
Yet his heart kept beating. It's a relief every time, even when it's faint and struggling. He wondered at some point if he should be bringing him somewhere for proper medical attention, but he can't bring himself to move his hand, and he can't ever think of where to go. He wishes he knew who healed Emet-Selch before... They seemed to be good at it, he thought. Mettaton doesn't know anybody who heals. He wonders if the Coven could help, if he could only bring him there.
So he hopes this works. A part of him starts to make plans, just in case he doesn't rouse or it starts to look unstable, because he won't let Emet-Selch die, even if Mikasa were to tell him he was a lost cause — he's seen her give up before, and she was wrong. He feels like he could stop his death no matter what sometimes, and at others, he feels very incapable of it.
But he comes back. It's hard to tell at first, with his own voice smoothing over the gradual strengthening of Emet-Selch's magical signature, but evening's well into night. Mettaton's fingers are smoothing over his brow, moving to trace over his lips; running over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose. And it's then that he speaks. Mettaton gasps, halting in his reverent tracing as he shifts impossibly close, overwhelmed with emotion.]
Hades...
[The Ascian's eyes open then. Mettaton catches his visage from the side, just as he has all evening, and it's dim in the room but he can see him quite clearly. The relief he feels may just overpower all else, seeing him stir to some manner of alertness.
The idol is the one to come closer, making sure that Emet-Selch doesn't have to. He keeps his hand pressed to the wadded fabric against his neck, moving so that his face should come into view without any further effort on his Bondmate's part — save for the trouble of having to focus on him at all. His free hand rests against his cheek as Mettaton smiles down on him, ears nearly back and brow knit in concern.
They couldn't really do what Mettaton wants, since TV doesn't exist. Movies don't exist. But having Emet-Selch return his words at all has Mettaton elated, desperately so. When he laughs, it's laden with emotion: the relief of hearing his Bonded after fearing for worse and worse situations. That he might never wake, or that he'd die... Any manner of scenarios cropped up in that head of his, extreme or not. He didn't know what to think.]
I'm glad to hear it... Really.
[Less that he might like his date fantasy, and more at the sound of his voice at all, no matter its quality. His thumb strokes over his cheekbone, thankful for all of the work his body's putting forth to recover. It's so much relief to know that he's alive (even if he'll only die when he returns home; Mettaton's thinking about this very moment over all else) that it weighs his very being down, a hope assuaging despair so thoroughly that the whiplash causes the robot to tear up. He can only imagine how Emet-Selch must be feeling: disoriented, aching, weak... But he hopes desperately that he doesn't feel alone or lost.
When Mettaton realizes too late that tears have slipped onto Emet-Selch's neck (the other, unaffected side), he gasps. Then, he hisses:]
Oh! Shit, no—
[He hastily wipes the tear from his neck with the blanket that covers him. ... His tears are perfectly benign, though Mettaton imagines that they must be acidic, proof of how infrequently he cries. (Proof that this robot can cry at all?) At least it snaps him out of crying at all. But Emet-Selch is fine, at least with regards to burning. Unless he can't tolerate robot fluid any more than he already does.
With that dealt with, Mettaton closes his eye and tries to pull himself together with a soundless sigh.]
Ah... How are you doing, darling? Will you... Are you all right?
no subject
He wanted to raise his hand to touch Mettaton's face, but he can't quite manage it. There's actually nothing 'quite' about it, there's a feeble twitch to his arm that hardly signals his intent for anything, and nothing else. But at least he could see him, could feel the touch to his own face- so soft and deliberate and loving, and more of a balm than anything else could be.
It takes Emet-Selch a moment to recognize the wetness hitting his skin, bewildered nearly as much at the feeling as he is at Mettaton's frantic rubbing it away, as though he thought it might hurt him.... He'd never seen the robot cry before, and in that moment he was afraid again. Whatever had happened had been serious enough to warrant both this upset and relief, and his fluttering, overworked heart speeds yet again. His own vision becomes blurry, and for a second he nearly panics, thinking he's losing hold of his own grasp of consciousness- but it's just a few of his own tears spilling over, and he doesn't entirely know why. The awareness that he might've died, that he'd been brought uncomfortably close to it so suddenly- hasn't quite reached his thoughts, but the feeling is there. A reason to be so unsettled.
What had happened? Mettaton's question has him trying to think back on it, on what had led to this state, to why he felt so weak and sick and empty. He'd been messaging the idol, yes- plans were made, of dubious but necessary intent. And then they'd- not argued, exactly, but were in disagreement again. Heatedly, agitatedly so, if not angrily. It was never like that... and then he was waiting for Mettaton to reach him, and- and that was it. The rest was a blank, at least for now.
As though to defend itself from further discomfort, his few thoughts kept being deflected back onto what he'd caught of Mettaton's date imaginings. Something so calm and normal and safe.... And that he wanted to do something nice with him, to just have his company- that it was something worth appreciating, and so, so very easy to lose. Could he have slipped away with so little warning? Not even through disappearance, but--
Emet-Selch doesn't shake his head (just the thought of it made him dizzy), but he does close his eyes, breath shuddering. And just as soon opens them again; as much as it hurt to see, to focus, the reassurance of what he could see was worth it.]
No. [He swallows heavily; he still needed time to piece things back together.] Not- not particularly. I don't- what happened?
[There were details to pick up on, even if the memory remained a blur. The strong scent of blood. His own extreme fatigue, that any attempt to turn his head hurt, both inside and out. There was fabric bunched up against one side of his neck, and his legs were strangely elevated. He was still clothed so they hadn't had sex yet, and he had an additional blanket on top of that. He still felt clammy.
He couldn't quite put the obvious conclusion together yet, only that something had gone wrong somewhere. He twitches, longing to pull himself still closer, to bury his face against Mettaton and breath him in- breathe in something other than blood.]
no subject
Seeing Emet-Selch tearing up in response to his own feelings, an overwhelming concoction of sentiment shared between them, has Mettaton wanting to pull him close and smother him, but he resists. He's not well, and doing that would only make it worse. The robot shifts in place to cope with the desire to kiss him breathless — his Bonded's already struggling with dizziness. Instead, he leans in and kisses his forehead; his temple; the corner of his eye; his cheek. His hand moves to wipe at tears, to remove one more source of liquid to be left cold on his face as he hums thoughtfully, pulling together his composure. Mettaton pulls back, but he remains in Emet-Selch's sights as he sidles his thigh against Emet-Selch's side. (Mettaton hasn't spared the moment to take his heels off, in all of this...)
It's not that he's no longer worried. Just seeing Emet-Selch rouse makes him feel leagues better, but his concern remains. His alertness brings him solace and strength, but his condition's poor, and he wants to keep him safe. (Turns out that Mettaton was the danger.)]
I... You must not remember. [Memory has a funny way of being unreliable like this, he's found. He can't blame Emet-Selch. He has trouble remembering things after a good shut-down, though it usually comes back to him afterward. He imagines it might be the same for the Ascian.] I bit you. I think I bit you too hard... Or maybe in the wrong place.
[Or maybe a combination of the two. Wrong place, just a bit too hard. He looks regretful and sheepish both, glancing at the wad of cloth he's kept pressed to Emet-Selch's neck for... hours.]
You asked me to go to bed. Once we got there, I kept drinking. It was bleeding so much... Too much. [... An unfortunately drool-worthy amount, even when it fills Mettaton with dread. Contradictory feelings. He swallows.] I didn't realize it, until you were passing out. ...Does that jog your memory, darling?
[It's not an excuse. Mettaton's thought about it while he was out cold: he'll figure out more concretely how to deal with bodies like this so that neither of them have to worry. So that they can do whatever they like, without running such risk. He doesn't want to treat Emet-Selch to this manner of suffering. His thumb strokes at his cheek some more, paying close attention to the signs his lover exhibits as he fixes his gaze upon his face again.]
I thought...
[Mettaton swallows again. He worried Emet-Selch would be in critical condition, but he doesn't want to unsettle him right now. He probably already knows, besides. Mettaton sighs and shakes his head, resolving not to ever let Emet-Selch come close to death.]
It's been a few hours since then. Do you need anything right now?
[Is he supposed to hydrate his Ascian after he loses so much blood? Once more, Mettaton is not completely aware of the needs of his body. He thinks that he'll need water, probably. His best guess.]
no subject
I think... I could hear you sometimes.
[This is, for some reason, something Emet-Selch decides he needs to express first. Confusion still lurks, disorientation his new companion, causing his thoughts to drift. But this is the memory he hits on initially. If it even was a memory, and not another delusion, the sparks of a dying mind piecing together something he wanted to hear--]
Have I ever said- that I like your voice. [This was the point he needed to say, apparently. His gaze becomes unfocused, distracted; his tone is soft, drifting.] I don't know. I might've imagined it.
[Blinking in his reverie, this time he does risk shaking his head, if only slightly; the stabbing ache in his neck seemed to support Mettaton's claim of a particularly deep bite, and he takes a shaky breath. What had Mettaton been saying again, in his lovely voice? An explanation of events. Emet-Selch had no idea what his Bonded had been doing during his unconsciousness apart from taking care of him. Ensuring that he was as warm as possible, that he didn't bleed out to the last. It didn't matter that the puca had been the cause of the injury, of reducing him to this state. Of actively pulling more blood from what would've naturally flowed from the wound. After all--]
--I told you- to drain me completely. I think. It... sounds like you nearly made it.
[A sentence muttered in a rushed exhalation, a hint of exasperation entering his voice. He wasn't upset- not in any sort of casting-blame sense, anyway. Only unnerved by the experience, yet- finding it strangely comforting to have the opportunity to at all express that unease, that uncertainty, that weakness. He was in company where he could do so, where he didn't have to pretend that he was fine, didn't have to force a defense.
With effort, he manages to move an arm, to let his hand brush against Mettaton's at his face. He was ill, there was no getting around that, but he wasn't dying, and his lover was here. Things weren't exactly great, but he would be fine. They both would be. But he could see Mettaton's fear; he could feel it, and he felt sick to think about what it must've been like to observe him like this. The helplessness, the panic- at seeing someone much cared for fading out before you.
They had to learn how to do this more safely; he didn't want to put his Bonded through that again....]
Water. [His various replies are all disjointed, thoughts skipping from one avenue to the next, and forgetting how to bridge separate concepts. But he was thirsty. Dreadfully so, now that he was aware of it; the stabbing headache was no doubt in part due to severe dehydration.] That would- help.
[It wasn't a replacement for blood, but it was a necessary component for continued living.]
no subject
Like the other compliments he's paid him, it's one that touches him deeply — especially knowing he'd heard him. He swells with pride, love, and relief, and he nods.]
I was talking to you! You weren't imagining it, gorgeous. I'm glad you heard me...
[He's very excited at having been heard and in his thrill, he leans in to kiss Emet-Selch next to his lips. He rubs his nose to his with a short, airy laugh, both at the pleasure to have been perceived at all, and at the acceptance of his compliment. It meant that maybe, Emet-Selch had something to hold onto in his lonely subconscious. The pads of his fingers rub at his face in small circles, careful to keep claws from digging in at all while he tries to come down from his roller coaster of emotions, jumping from despair to relief to fear to sorrow to this blithe euphoria. Glad to be here, glad Emet-Selch is, too.
And he has to simper at Emet-Selch's exasperation. He sure did that... attempt to drain him so thoroughly, as though trying to leave nothing behind to lose. His ears don't quite fold back, but they do fall, and they posture at either side of his head almost in the direction of a lop's. At feeling the Ascian's fingers reach for his, he captures them between his own and holds his hand, though it's the back of his hand to Emet-Selch's palm.
Emet-Selch's free to show the whole of himself, and Mettaton expects as much. Mettaton demonstrates in turn his excessiveness to its fullest degree. There's little he can do to return his blood to him... It's his, and it's always been his, but he acknowledges that he went overboard. Terrifyingly overboard, sedated into feeling all was fine.
He could elaborate some more on that matter upon his return, as his ears spring to attention at Emet-Selch's request. He nods. Mettaton feels validated for predicting what he might need. Maybe he's not so bad at understanding Emet-Selch's needs after all, as a creature of flesh and blood. His fingers pet Emet-Selch's cheek, and he realizes that he's still holding onto his neck...]
Ah.
[It's palpable, how quickly Mettaton chills through their Bond, as though his heart sunk. He shifts, uneasy.]
I... can get you water. Will you be able to hold this? Against your neck.
[Mettaton doesn't even consider that it might be safe to pull it off. That maybe he could switch to bandages, in fact. He just keeps imagining that he'll keep holding this for all of these moments, into infinity, for however long it's necessary to feel reassured that Emet-Selch won't just bleed out again.]
no subject
And though he doesn't quite hum at the outpouring of affectionate gestures (there's a sort of... hoarse sound that might've been an attempt at one, though), he appreciates them deeply. Both the feeling of contact, and the feeling of emotion that went with it- though it did strike the Ascian as a bit sad that he could rarely express these sorts of things... except under unusual circumstances. And that this time was a bit more unfortunate than most.
But he hadn't imagined him... that part was the most reassuring point of all. And Emet-Selch wondered if it had made it a little easier to surface again. To have something drawing him back... or to at least keep him company in the dark.
Company that was something other than a delusion. Perhaps he was just more susceptible in this state, but- with this reassurance applied, it felt easier to accept that this all was real. That everything he was feeling, the hurt and relief, adoration and exhaustion, all of it was happening, somehow. He was here, in this place, with this person. He could feel Mettaton's hand and his love.
--And his unease, suddenly, which he can't help but hone in on, even in his reduced condition. Whatever concentration he could manifest was for him. His neck? Ah... Mettaton was still supporting it, was still pressing a lump of fabric to it, as though his head might fall off if he let go. Emet-Selch doesn't nod, but he does shift his other arm up to feel for the material there. The pressure he can apply with his hand isn't that great, though, so he's not sure how to respond. He could touch it, but that didn't really qualify as holding it.]
A little.
[That was the appropriate qualifier, he thought. That it might be safe to remove, he doesn't know and is more than willing to accept Mettaton's impulse of It Stays There Forever, Now. Or at least until there are bandages to replace it (especially if the material has at all dried to the wound; removing it will likely tear it open again, so having something else available to take its place would be useful).]
It should be fine. [Though his tone makes a question of that statement, so he adds:] Just- don't take too long.
[But that was more because he didn't want to lose sight of him, didn't want to lose that contact, rather than any concern when it came to additional bleeding.]
no subject
Gingerly, he lets go, and pats the Ascian's hand for good measure, an expenditure of energy. The hand he's had pressed to the cloth is bloodied, though it's all dry at this point and it tries to stick to fabric as he trades places. Released from his duty temporarily, he nods at Emet-Selch.]
I'll be back before you know it. Just watch, and hang in there.
[Fondly, he gives him another soft caress of his cheek, another peck to his forehead — a lingering look, as though to ensure that Emet-Selch will really be fine.
But Mettaton figures the best he can do is be quick, so he hops to it.
The most unfortunate thing about a big house: having to go distances to get from place to place. Not that Mettaton's caring much for that, even though he dislikes being pried from his Bonded. For the most part, he's pleased to be fetching something for his sake, and he takes as many shortcuts as exist by dropping off the banister instead of using the stairs (too confident in himself to imagine that he could sprain an ankle now that he has any muscle at all) and skipping steps on his way back up. Water is easily obtained without distraction. He thinks to make a detour for medical supplies, and realizes that... they don't have any.
This is a house with a skeleton and a robot as the permanent residents. And unless Emet-Selch spontaneously decided to stock the place with medical supplies, they are likely to have absolutely nothing. Mettaton doesn't bother looking, choosing instead to head straight back for the room. (He'll have to make do with fabric or something, he thinks.)
Upon entering, he quickly sets a pitcher aside (thinking ahead: reducing trips to the kitchen for water, in case Emet-Selch should want more than a glass), Mettaton brings a completely nondescript glass of water (free of nitroglycerin) to the bed, sidling up next to him and offering it in a trade. He does this as he analyzes Emet-Selch's condition, thinking about his weak grip, the way he's lying down in such a way that drinking would be the same as upending water over his head...
The Puca hums.]
Do you need help, Hades, darling?
[Already, his other hand moves to prepare to assist, fingers hovering around his neck and shoulders. No matter what he needs, Mettaton will do it. He seems so weakened, after all... Could he sit up on his own? He doubts it. Could he hold a glass in his grip? He's not sure, but he'll be here to help: Emet-Selch has nothing to hide from him, after all. Mettaton softens some more, ears dropping a degree.]
no subject
And he wondered if it would scar, this bite. Emet-Selch didn't mind the thought of keeping it around, even if this memory was complicated. But weren't they all? Even the healing mark over his heart had all the associations of that day attached to it. From the failed transformations, to the sharing of tortures and everything else- there were a lot of feelings the sight of it invoked. This wound would be the same, he suspected: mixed of sentiment, but important.
His fingers tense against the pillowcase as best they can. It remained a touch unnerving how weakened he felt, but as the minutes ticked past, he could settle by degrees. He would still need a lot of sleep he knew, but there were worse prospects- and it would at least be the sleep of deliberate rest, and not a forced unconsciousness due to a sharp reduction in blood pressure. A sleep of healing.
But he nods this time when Mettaton makes his move for a temporary departure, sustained anew by all the additional attention. He would hold this pillowcase to the best of his ability and deliberately not count the moments until Mettaton returned. And he found that even when he couldn't see him, he could hear his Bonded moving- the clicking of heels on stairs, the loud thump of a heavy metal body jumping off... something. There was plenty of noise.
It's well enough that Mettaton hadn't stopped to look for medical supplies that didn't exist; the Ascian certainly wouldn't have stocked any. If for some reason any items like this ever became required, he'd trusted in his ability for conjuration to handle it. This... led to some minor problems when he was the one in need of attention, because his ability to magic up anything at the moment was minimal. It was a perfect plan otherwise, with the small caveat that he could never be the one hurt.
And then Mettaton was back, and Emet-Selch relaxes a bit of tension he hadn't noticed he'd collected, though when he's offered up the water, he pauses, wondering much the same thing as the puca. He didn't particularly look forward to sitting up, but it was the only way he'd be able to drink anything without choking, and he did need the water.]
...If you could. [He's not even about to pretend that he was capable of doing this on his own. While it might not be impossible, he considered- to painfully drag and push himself upright- it would be easier with his lover's support. There really was nothing to hide. So though his arms move, to do what they could, Emet-Selch will lean heavily into Mettaton's own grip, wincing at the changing positions. Nor does he like the way he's getting out of breath again just from this, or the lightheadedness or- much of anything about this whole process. In the end he mostly ends up clinging to Mettaton instead, eyes closed, waiting for the world to stop moving.
And once settled, the glass itself would also be safer with another hand on it; another case where it might not be strictly necessary... but it would certainly facilitate affairs. It was strange to both have someone to rely on, and be comfortable enough to accept the available help.]
no subject
Of course I can. Hang onto that...
[By "that", he means his neck, still worrying himself over it.
Sliding his fingers underneath Emet-Selch's neck, he realizes too late that his movement was more to achieve an end in his desire to help him sit up than it was out of any caution for his existing wounds, and he worries for a moment that he could've hurt his already damaged neck. Just how careful should he be? But it doesn't seem it did anything to hurt him. The give of pillows beneath his neck were to thank for that, since they formed around his arm more than Emet-Selch's skin.
In fact, thank anything related to pillows and pillowcases. Even if Emet-Selch accidentally lets go of the fabric Mettaton's dedicated himself to, it likely has dried to the spot: it won't move as readily as Mettaton fears, which is both a relief (mostly to ease Mettaton's irrational (?) worries about Emet-Selch bleeding out again upon its removal) and probably a sign that its intentional removal will disturb the wound somewhat. Regardless of the pressure applied to his neck, Mettaton's easily helped him sit up with an arm about the Ascian's shoulders, other hand holding the glass before him like a prize he's happy to give, though it's clear Emet-Selch needs a moment.
And so he watches him, wondering how he feels. How the hoarse quality of his voice feels in his throat, what it feels like to know he needs water, how the neck injury impacts speaking or turning his head or if it'll affect drinking — a ridiculous image in his mind's eye of water draining from the wound, even though he knows it's not that deep, not connected to this esophagus, but having the confusing thought anyway. For all of Mettaton's growing understanding of his body, it's all so curious to him, how they work. And really, he'd rather have thoughts like these - ridiculous ones that compare an injured neck to a leaky pipe - than the harrowing thoughts of crushed organs and distorted giants. This is about his lover, and his well-being.
Mettaton wonders if this level of vulnerability Emet-Selch feels ready to demonstrate before him has anything to do with having met him in a cell intended for torture. He doesn't strike him as the sort to drop his guard readily, more the sort to feel uncomfortable at the thought, and it causes his grip to tighten protectively. But then, he considers that his own feelings of being able to be so prone to Emet-Selch in spirit come from the knowledge that even if it hurts him, his Bonded can handle him. He believes that to be the case, and he smiles warmly, wishing to convey to him that he'll take him any time, no matter how he is. No matter how scary, incensed, weak, or softened he is, Mettaton wants to see every dimension of Emet-Selch. It's a natural result, to feel this close to someone he loves like this. It's mutual.
The idol facilitates Emet-Selch's lean and waits until he's ready.
His hand remains with the glass so it's not dropped in a mess all over, too, especially once he feels the lightness of the Ascian's touch. He's already anticipated as much. Mettaton's thumb strokes over Emet-Selch's shoulder.]
... This showed me something. I may have learned more about bodies like this... More than I've ever understood. However. Learning how to better care for you could only be a benefit.
[Not only in practicing emergency first aid for Emet-Selch, himself (organic form), and for anybody he chances upon, but to avoid damaging their bodies. He doesn't view them as particularly weaker than his own metal one, but with different vulnerabilities. (He truly could only learn, given that he still believes that humans can consume just about anything safely.)
This could have gone a lot worse, if he didn't ask for help. If he didn't get lucky. If Emet-Selch were in any worse condition. He can hardly fathom it.
Regarding Emet-Selch in this host of his, he imagines that normally, he should be able to vacate this body and find another. Worrying about dying like this is be a new concern for the Ascian, bound to his body as he likely is. It means he has to be extra cautious — or about as cautious as everyone else who only gets one body, which is normal levels of caution.]
For example. I didn't know that pressure would stop your bleeding... I only thought about how you tried to hold me together, in vain. That I could hold you together.
[The rest of it, he needed external advice — and even knowing that pressure was a good thing was something he learned through that conversation.]
And you probably don't need stitches. [Not even thinking about the fact that a society that can rely upon magic for healing mostly takes care of the need for stitches; just regurgitating what Mikasa could tell him.]
no subject
Guiding the glass rather than taking it with his free hand, he slowly drinks from it, listening to Mettaton as he does. He takes it slowly; as desperate for water as he felt, he knew if he went too quickly, even water alone would be a difficult thing for his body to handle. So he sips at it, and thinks of his Bonded's impromptu lesson when it came to a human's physiology.
It wasn't a surprise, not really, that Mettaton had been unaware of such basic aspects of a mortal's maintenance. His anatomy studies must've been about form and some degree of correct function; the imagery he'd seen in the memories of others had covered catastrophic damage, bodies rendered unsalvagable, barely recognizable. Had he ever come across these lesser sorts of injuries before? He couldn't have.
Emet-Selch wanted to say that Mettaton's not missing much when it comes to experiencing these details of organic form, and that it was better to limit his knowledge to that of observation. There was pleasure in the pain of being bitten, sure (at least, when it came to being bitten by Mettaton), and even in a bit of blood loss, and even in a bit of satisfying aching due to exertion and aforementioned damage- but there was an upper limit to what felt good, and this had slightly passed it. His neck was stiff, his head was pounding, his pulse was still too fast, he felt shaky and sick and tired- these were not fun experiences.
But he wouldn't have been surprised if Mettaton would've wanted them all anyway, if for the novelty. For the satisfaction of it, of understanding humanity in the way one only can by wearing their flesh for more than a few hours. So the Ascian says nothing, quietly relieved that any similar-to-far-worse damage on the idol's part would be undone by a shapeshifting reversion. And his robotic form could be repaired.... He didn't want to see him hurting.
Emet-Selch just nudges against him instead, in quiet affection. Touched again that Mettaton wanted to learn how to take better care of this sort of body, in all its fragility. It doesn't surprise him, but it doesn't keep him from appreciating it.]
Not... the kindest of introductions to a mortal form's requirements, was it? Still. At least... at least you've learned something from it. Although I prefer... your previous studies of my body.
[He sighs softly against the glass, then takes a few more swallows from it. The Ascian was also continuing to learn that he should probably take better care of this host. What would happen if he died here? Would it be the same as dying in truth?]
How did you learn what to do?
[How did he know about stitches and assessing a wound for them.]
no subject
When Emet-Selch responds to his musings upon what he's learned, his ears droop somewhat, thinking about what sort of unpleasant method of learning this truly was. And though one could say that the two of them were complicit in Emet-Selch's deterioration (even Mettaton would agree that they both wanted this, they both wanted Emet-Selch's drain, this possession, this pleasure), he still feels a level of responsibility for his part of blissful ignorance, his true indulgence. Worse yet, for wanting more of his blood even as he sits here at his side, trying to aid in his recovery, acknowledging that were he somehow starved for his Witch's blood in this moment instead of half-filled with it, he might crave it badly enough that he'd take another bite of him if driven to low enough moods. Mettaton glances away for a moment, biting shortly at his lower lip.
Instead, he thinks about their previous... study sessions. The times Mettaton's raked his hands along the expanse of Emet-Selch's skin, kissed him from lips to hips, probed every part of his body with wandering fingertips. Even thinking about it in combination with his muted craving might well be relayed by their Bond, Mettaton knowing how transparent they both are, though it's not an indulgence he's willing to satisfy with his lover like this. A memory is fine. The remembrance of warm skin under his tongue, the give of muscle, the sound of his panting...
Mettaton drags his attention to this new kind of scenario with a soundless sigh. Exhaling heat. One of his ears flicks. He nudges back against Emet-Selch when he's not busy drinking, heated by his infatuation for him but very much in this moment and all of its ills. He nods in agreement, that he's learned, but that he prefers the less terrifying ways of learning about his Bondmate's body. Not the kinds that leave him cold and lifeless, if he could help it.
He would also have to be careful. If not learning to control himself, he's determined to learn to pace himself.
Emet-Selch's question earns a short nod from Mettaton.]
Ah. I called a friend! Her name is Mikasa. She's a human, and she's blunt, no-nonsense... but she's protective, and knows what to do. Since she's a soldier, I figured she'd know how to help in a pinch... Elevating your legs, since you were unconscious and drained. Applying pressure to your wound. I trust her.
[And she could have very well given him advice that would've broken his heart, but she didn't, so all was well and good. She didn't see that Emet-Selch would be a lost cause, but she's probably seen people survive worse. (And if he'd stayed on the line any longer, she probably would have tried to get Emet-Selch a healer. Not that Mettaton knew what she might've been up to, in his panic...)]
I asked her what to do if you lost too much blood, and she wanted to see how big the injury was...
[Mettaton doesn't at all prioritize making private their activities if Emet-Selch's health was on the line, and he doesn't even think of the impression she might've gotten from seeing a Puca bite on an unconscious person's neck atop a bed. He sure showed her that. But he got helpful advice from her, and for that, the idol couldn't be happier with it. She helped Emet-Selch, because of course she would.]
no subject
He would just have to keep improving then, to not worry him, to not have to see the remorse evident in his ears. Finishing with his water, he lets that hand drop, and the Ascian leans that bit more against his Bondmate, allowing himself to relax. He wished he could nuzzle him, bury his face in his neck- but that would take moving and twisting, so leaning closer is all he does for now. He wasn't sure how to express that he didn't consider this to be at all Mettaton's fault, that this was solidly a joint effort in absolute excess, so he settles for... settling, as warmly as his body could manage it.
It yet brings the briefest of smiles to his expression at the distinct sense of heat evident through Bond, clearly inspired by his mention of past studies of his form. How easily prone Mettaton was- how they both were, to each other. Even though it were a current impossibility, it was a nicer thought, and provided another measure of comfort. They weren't ignoring the current situation, the blood and the fear and how fragile it had all been, so quickly- but it wasn't as though attraction and wantings stopped being an undercurrent to their affection. Even if it couldn't be indulged in, it was soothing (and warming) to know it was there.
That Mettaton would still be wanting his blood as well doesn't quite occur to him.
And Emet-Selch only nods a little at Mettaton's mention of showing this Mikasa some sort of imagery of the injury. The Ascian didn't particularly like the idea of anyone else seeing him so weakened, unconscious, unable to defend himself, but accepted that it was necessary in the circumstances. He'd just have to trust in Mettaton's perception of his friend (and she had given him useful advice, so perhaps his judgement of her was correct).]
So you know... a few useful humans after all.
[Any concerns about propriety don't occur to him, and he wouldn't care much about them even if they did. Sure, he wouldn't have gone around displaying the implications brought by being collapsed on someone's bed with their distinctive teeth-marks in his neck, but he also wouldn't have been embarrassed by them.]
Hm... perhaps I'll have to thank her.
[For providing useful advice in part, even though he's likely to have survived regardless, with Mettaton's base instinct regarding covering the wound (and not continuing to drink from it) doing enough to save him. But it was still proper advice, and more importantly, provided the inherent reassurance of being told what to do. Of having something to do, and being able to trust that someone's assessment of what to do was correct. To not be left completely alone in his panic with his possibly-dying Bondmate. That alone was worth gratitude.]
We'll just- have to avoid requiring her... assistance again.
no subject
It brings the idol satisfaction to see his Bondmate reach some level of stability, even though he can hear in his voice a stilted manner of speech, slow and mildly labored. Getting better with time. Making sense, no longer so disconnected as though only vaguely grasping what's going on around him... And what a difference, compared to how lost he was before losing consciousness, and just after waking. He wants to drag Emet-Selch close and hold him, but he's better off not being manhandled, he thinks. He's close, and he's doing better: that's what matters.
(Just after waking, however... It was preferable to just before he went under. It meant he was on the upswing, never mind how defenseless and honest he was with his thoughts and feelings. With what he liked. With his attempt to express pleasure for being in his company despite his circumstance, and it makes Mettaton feel even more affection for him as he presses his cheek into him, making sure he's thoroughly his. Making sure Emet-Selch could feel his fondness. He hums.)
Mettaton nods at the notion of thanking Mikasa. He wants to thank her, too, and she's not just a useful human, but a good-hearted one, he thinks. Assuming it's about her contribution rather than any company or reassurance she provided, because that's what Mettaton's most glad for: the practical advice that he feels made a difference. Knowing that pressure was the right thing, and that there was more he could do. (He still plans on making sure it's clean, just as she advised, but he hasn't had the heart to pull that cloth from his neck.)
Voice low, the hand Mettaton has against his chest rubs softly with his thumb.]
Agreed. You should meet her. [A pause.] And... We'll have to find additional avenues to get carried away with. Ones that don't end like this.
[Mettaton's version of an apology: the suggestion that alternative routes exist to distribute his feelings, and that he'd be willing to find them rather than resorting to carving into him so strongly with teeth. Something that satisfies the both of them, but something tenable, not something that results in this, especially when Emet-Selch starts to lose consciousness and finds himself overcome by nausea. He'll take some action. He doesn't want Emet-Selch anywhere near death.
As he sits here and grapples with the cravings he had while the other man was unconscious, smelling his blood and worried sick while wondering when he could have more of his blood again... Mettaton still doesn't think of that as a problem, just something he needs more avenues to expend. Different thrills, all manner of indulgences that could bring them both equal satisfaction without putting his Bonded at risk of bleeding out. Therefore, it doesn't make him panic to feel like he won't ever taste his blood again: he will, but not so wildly, not a gush of it that he can swallow with wild abandon. And while the thought brings him a sick delight, it also settles wrong with him to think about. If he ever felt that particular pressure and volume again, Mettaton feels sure in this moment that he'd know something was wrong.
Mettaton kisses the top of his head.]
Did you want anything else, darling? I'm thinking otherwise... you must want rest.
[Another test of his prophetic abilities (that don't work like this) — or, at least, his ability to grasp these more organic needs. Emet-Selch isn't the best he could be, and rest helps.]
no subject
But he was warm and safe; he couldn't take either of those things for granted.
Even if it would've probably been better for them both for this whole incident to be avoided, the degree to which he felt looked after, cared for- the gentle side of possession- was something he still had a hard time grasping. Nearly as difficult was the awareness of love experienced to this degree, and he's not sure if the unsteadiness that he continues to feel is a result of that, or the loss of blood.
(And 'Useful' was still a reasonably-high compliment for a human from the Ascian, really. Something that any insect should be grateful for.)]
No doubt we'll find- something. Determined as we are.
[There was still an endless amount to catch up on, affections that couldn't be expressed only once. Mettaton could still take his blood, bruise and bite him (Emet-Selch didn't see the point of stopping something they both enjoyed just because of a single overindulgence), just not, perhaps, to this degree. Which only meant spreading that intensity into other aspects. No reduction in it, only more ways to express it... yes. Dying was best avoided.
(Even if 'death by amorous puca-bite' would've been a unique one for the Ascian.)
Mettaton's prophetic senses are working so well today (even if his danger sensing ones were briefly offline), as the Ascian makes a soft noise of assent at the suggestion of rest. Apart from being sore and achy, he was mostly just tired, and letting his body get on with replenishing its blood supply was probably the best thing either of them could do for him.]
And... I think sleep will suffice for now.
[Said as he attempts to shuffle back down against the mattress without losing any bit of that contact with the robot. Even if physical comfort wasn't going to be a part of his near future, he knew he'd be able to sleep regardless. He always could, and now he had a fine excuse to stay in bed for a while and not move. Truly, every encounter with Mettaton had its advantages....]
no subject
He'd love to pull him in close, but there's that issue with manhandling again. He almost wonders if enough movement would cause him to feel faint again, in his currently healing state. He doesn't want to test it. Needless to say, he's content with letting Emet-Selch lay on his back.]
Sleep, then. I'll be here. Hopefully, following suit. If not, that's fine.
[Feeling the need to announce what he'll (try to) do with his time, considering most people just go to bed and sleep... But sleep is still novel to him, and he feels the need to clarify what he, a robot, will be doing with his time: lying there, or sleeping, or recharging while lying there, any manner of options. He's definitely spent some nights lying there alert while Emet-Selch slept, of course.
Feeling significantly reassured that Emet-Selch is in better form and is only bound to further recover over time, Mettaton feels he can relax — that, should anything go awry, he'll be able to tell. With another shift of his body, he tucks himself closer to his Bonded before he's possessed by the desire to kiss him on the lips. An indulgence he allows: he lifts up again to lean over his figure, brushing his lips against Emet-Selch's first as a warning before gently capturing his the other man's lips with his own.
It's a gentle, soft kiss that doesn't last long, but an expression of his fondness and relief both. A softness, an invitation to his warmth, an attempt at comforting the both of them where a bite wouldn't suffice. Yes, really... kisses are just one of those outlets they have at their disposal, he thinks, and Emet-Selch could always use more of them. He could express any manner of feeling through them, even the ones that run burning hot enough for teeth to feel like the only appropriate choice. He can imagine it, how feverish kisses would serve as the gesture he needs to convey a possessiveness, a need, an overwhelming capture of his lover. This, on the other hand, is the intent not to suffocate him. A simple kiss to show him he cares.]
no subject
But his company alone would be enough, and while he can't burrow against him to show his approval, his appreciation, the Ascian can at least lean. Can nudge, just a little. He was sure that just having him nearby would help, somehow, even if it wasn't as though Mettaton could cause his blood to regenerate any faster (and that technically, he was his greatest risk for losing more of it). But he was a reason to heal... someone concrete to heal for, some small task he could achieve for someone.
Plans for the immediate future in place, Emet-Selch's consciousness already begins to drift, until he feels a small shifting, a soft touch of lips against his own that turns into the most gentle of kisses. It's a contact that causes the quietest of sounds to form in his throat, something that's scarcely given any opportunity to escape, and not because it's trapped there by force. But it's all the Ascian can manage, his approval faint in tone but not in sentiment.
This softness was exactly what they both needed, he thought; these feelings were the ones most needed to express. Sometimes there was heat and pressure, air stolen from his lungs, noise suffocated in his chest, sometimes there were kisses pressed to all parts of either of their bodies, some firm, some wet, some accompanied by gasps or interrupted by moans. There was a lot that a kiss could encompass, and when shared with his lover, they could only be a pleasure.
But they each had their time and place, and this time only gentleness would suffice.
By the time Mettaton pulls back, his consciousness is already fading again, though the darkness that follows didn't seem quite so absolute, not so beset by confusion and fear. No, this time he knew exactly where he was, and it... it wasn't a bad place.]