[One moment, Mettaton was alone at home, mourning his condition. But he did so with a smile: he was heartened dearly by the arrival of Emet-Selch, and having him here and (mostly) well was a bliss that wouldn't quickly fade.
Sure, that meant they were both trapped in another world and being subjected to its terrors. But Mettaton had no regret for that left when he knew they both wanted to be together, even if he would do anything to spare Emet-Selch of any trouble. ...At the same time, he appreciated having him by his side to weather it all with him.
Maybe it was selfish, but MTT wouldn't deny he was plenty of that. But given the choice, he would wish for Emet-Selch to weather any hardship with him.
... It was but three days ago that he lost consciousness. Deep into sleep he fell after a drought of it, as Mettaton's body restored itself gradually. Where he'd collapsed was into a metal heap onto the floor, all without knowing. And into dreamland he slipped, where he imagined the love of his life, where he dreamed blissfully of banter and wry smiles, of teasing back-and-forths and the intensity of a bright, golden stare, fixed at him through a mirror past the flush of his cheeks. Where he could feel the touch of his fingers firm over his body, caressing and massaging every inch of his being until he lay unwound, sensitive and begging for more. Every part of his body tended and teased—even the parts he once had, but presently lacked in this realm...
Of course, the rest of his life was in a city between neon lights and pulsing music. Everything about it was what he'd shaped it to be... but he spent it with Emet-Selch. Thoughts stitched together in impressions is all he would wake with, though the sensation of having been pampered and loved stuck with him, even as he cracks open his eye.
Mettaton turns with a groan. He stretches, despite having no muscles to flex. Had he... slept? And with Emet-Selch not immediately nearby, he pouts, remembering his husband's discontent at having been alone upon waking during the heavy red moon. But the room wasn't dark, at least, and there was no hint of red moons. Just the regular air, the regular sounds, the peace and quiet in the housing district next to the gentle push of wind over Lake Omen's surface. Peaceful indeed, even if Somnius still felt like something of a fever dream. ...Even waking felt disorienting, to Mettaton, who finds himself flopping over.
With both hands, he reaches over for his device with a groan. That he has both hands is something he doesn't even notice, nor does he remember to note how good he felt. He was thinking about Emet-Selch—and the fact that he wasn't here.]
I hope this message finds you before I do. Because I want to know, why I'm sleeping in for longer than you! And after you bemoaned my absence at your bed-side... Hades, do I have to hunt you down and drag you home? What could be more important than
[... What was he doing? It felt like they were in a delicate situation before he'd... fallen asleep somehow. (How had he fallen asleep? Was the comfort he found in Emet-Selch's presence really so effective on a robot who didn't normally sleep??) After accidentally slipping a finger against the send button, Mettaton taps the phone idly with both thumbs. ... With both thumbs.]
[Emet-Selch was the sort to leave people deliberately on read. And when he initially receives the text from Mettaton, that's exactly what he does. Reads it- all the way to its disjointed conclusion- and puts the phone back down. Exhales slowly into the evening air.
When he'd asked the Crystal for help, he hadn't known what to expect. His hopes hadn't been high, but his desperation had been increasing as the days passed. While Mettaton was technically in no danger of dying from his wounds, they were also alarmingly permanent, disfiguring. Inconvenient. And for all the cheerfulness his lover exhibited, the reassurance they both felt at being there together, there was no getting around that this wasn't how he wanted to be. For vanity and practicality both.
So once Emet-Selch was well enough to leave the cottage, he'd gone to the one possibility he knew about. And he asked, as politely- and genuinely- as he could. ...Of course, there had been no response, no sign that he hadn't been wishing it all to himself.
It was only when he'd returned to find one(1) Mettaton crumpled onto the floor of their modest abode that he had any sort of confirmation that the Crystal had heard him. This couldn't be a coincidence, and he felt first an exhausted sort of pique that this was his answer. His husband was made worse, because he'd dared to ask for anything (Though fortunately not dead, he could tell that much from the glow of his core. But unreachable, unresponsive, no matter what he tried.).
...He'd still carried Mettaton to bed, even though it wasn't as though robots could wake up with a sore back. He still muttered to himself about the dead weight he was made to haul around, as he tried to hold back his concern, his fears. Setting Mettaton up into a position 'comfortable', he set his severed arm next to him as it would surely be needed if it were going to... attach itself, somehow. He didn't know what to think.
Fortunately, it hadn't been long until he'd seen the first signs of change, if not of waking. A creep of silicone where there had been chunks missing; metal being filled in, thin layers at a time. Slow as it was, Emet-Selch first thought he was deluding himself, going completely mad over this new trial. But it was real. (He also took several photos to compare it, to further confirm to himself that he wasn't imagining things, and there were definitely changes. From hour to hour, things grew.)
Mettaton was healing. Bizarrely. Yet there was no sign of wires reaching out to reconnect to his old, mangled arm, but before Emet-Selch had the chance to worry that it wouldn't be included, he witnessed the birth of tubing curling out from under shoulderguards (which had also regrown from weird metal nubs into their normal dramatic shape). And from that modest nest... fingers. Mettaton was healing.
So Emet-Selch left their cottage from time to time, and this happened to be one of those times. And if he were wholly honest, he'd been sort of expecting Mettaton to rouse soonish. The last he checked, the damage that remained had been light, and it followed to him that it would all be concluded with a return to consciousness. Which doesn't mean he's not relieved to see the idol's message; he is, and his immediate delay in replying is partially due to that.
But it was also deliberate to chance not being there. And Mettaton's text justified that pettiness, to him. But he does eventually reply.]
An empty threat, you've no way of tracking me in your current form.
And I've done nothing. The air of this star must be good for you. Should I have disposed of the spare?
[He notes he's awoken in bed. It's... probably soft against his every angle and plane, compressed under unyielding metal and framework. He'd appreciate it all if he had muscles to feel sore with—and ultimately, he does note how good he feels. He feels refreshed, as though he were in possession of muscles, and they'd all been rubbed down until every twitch and need for exertion had been worked out of him. He felt so good.
Mettaton blames this on the dream-Emet-Selch, who so lovingly massaged him from head to toe, then back again, and generously so upon... some areas.
So he was in bed, and he did appreciate it. It was more glamorous besides, though he knew that Emet-Selch would remain on the floor with him if need be, as he had before. The point was this: he much preferred bed rest to being an appliance left as a heap on the floor!
He also just wanted Emet-Selch next to him. And he wasn't here, the way he would be upon waking as usual. He had two-to-three arms now, and could hold him tight... Mettaton huffs at his phone, as Emet-Selch deliberately delays the inevitable. (And MTT gets a growing sense that he was casually biding his time, for a very particular reason. More a reason to huff.)]
I may not be a Puca. But I don't need earrings or finding magic to hunt you down, darling. No, what I have on my side is my love for you... and everything I've come to learn about you. I could find you in a snap!
[That is the more playful, if heated, message. One that he still sends with a daunting smile upon his lips. The next, though, is more heartfelt.]
The air... Hades, are you sure you had nothing to do with this? It may not be unusual for me to dream about you... but I feel as though I spent the night in a luxurious resort, massaged up and down by your graceful hands and dexterous fingers. I feel I have you written all over me.
[The third arm is an oddity. Mettaton sends this message, and regards it quietly. What should've been done with this...]
[Once he'd ascertained that Mettaton wouldn't set the bed or anything else on fire, Emet-Selch had situated him there, even unattended. Mechanical body or not, he knew his lover would appreciate the gesture- as he appreciated it himself, for sentimental and practical reasons both. The Ascian still spent much of his time napping, and while he would've accepted the floor if required, it was nicer to do in a bed.
As he stayed with him, for more time than he didn't. Noting both his recovery and his stillness- a combination that reassured as much as it left him uneasy. A quiet, motionless Mettaton was an unnerving thing, and when he didn't know exactly why he was like that, beyond it having some connection to his wish for healing- left his own rest unsettled. What would he do if Mettaton healed entirely, but never woke up? What more would he have to be indebted to this Crystal for?
Fortunately, none of that came about, even if he hadn't been there to see it. Emet-Selch still ignores outright Mettaton's comment about being able to find him regardless. He knew it was true.]
Your imagination arrived intact, I see. Why in the world was I massaging you? You don't even have muscles.
[Sure, he had no hesitation, and no lack of desire towards placing his hands all over him. And if his dream self was anything like him, then he would've been the same. But that wasn't a massage... that was just groping. Handling. Even teasing.
He didn't know why he didn't just outright admit to having gone to the Crystal for help. Stubbornness, maybe. His relief to know it worked translating into pointless contrarianism.]
And you know entirely well that I don't have the means to repair you as I am. You're free to continue reminding me of this, again and again, if you choose.
[On Mettaton's end of things, he's convinced more and more that Emet-Selch was responsible for his complete recovery. And he sighs, dreamy, tossing his head down upon less-than-luxurious pillows and letting his "phone" drop loosely upon the blankets. Somehow, he grew a whole arm. If it weren't his creation magic, it still had to be a miracle of some kind... and what sort of miracle could take place here than a wish?
His phone vibrates with impending messages, but Mettaton's too busy dreaming of Emet-Selch wishing for his health, bowing before the Crystal with his husband in mind. How dreamy... Mettaton loves to be thought of and cared for, and it was a good use of shards. If he didn't wish it, it would have to be some spin on healing magic.
He was the culprit. That, Mettaton was sure of.
So he picks up his phone by twisting his wrist, reading over Emet-Selch's messages with a cheerful hum. (He felt so good, his mood included. The red moons felt lightyears away... even when he knew they'd just happened.) He taps away again, pulling his phone closer to his face as he relaxes his weight into the bed.]
My imagination, at our service! I don't need muscles to enjoy your touch, my love. And you were so thorough... Your touch, so deep. So, so deep... I'd salivate, if I could.
[Another thing lost: Mettaton's ability to produce saliva. Awkward as it was to sprout that function, it was a shame to lose.]
You haven't lost your resourcefulness, darling. And I bet you knew exactly what to do... and you did it in secret! Oh, Hades, you doll. Could I ask of you another favor? I want to tell you something, but I want to do so in person... Would you come to me?
[That Mettaton takes his time to even read his messages... the Ascian would be (unreasonably) irked, if he hadn't similarly zoned out. Less cheerfully, far less in a good mood, despite the relief that his husband had woken up. Not in a terrible mood either, but something muted, tired.
Shaking off a bit of the haze when he hears the notification sound, Emet-Selch frowns before he even begins reading it.]
Another thing left behind us.
[Mettaton's ability to salivate, that is. And strange as it was as a thing to miss- it had its uses.]
What 'resourcefulness' is it, when there's only one option left?
[Dissatisfaction remained, that he'd given in and asked this dubious source for a boon, and his fingers tighten around the phone. Even if some payment had been taken from him, it was one he couldn't completely quantify, which inspired his caution. He was certainly grateful for it as well, no matter the concern his lover's unconsciousness had brought, but that didn't mean he liked it.
Ambivalence, at best. He sighs into the night air, looks back up at the Crystal itself that he'd been lingering in the vicinity of. No more wishes required, for now.]
I'll return. How much should I be dreading whatever it is you're holding back from me? Your answer will determine my pace.
[A pause; he even takes a few steps, before stopping, and adding on impulse.]
[He could feel Emet-Selch's listlessness even from afar, inspired by his dull circumstances. It would feel like a hopeless circumstance indeed... Fiddling with his phone, he closes his eye, basks in the tired feeling he could imagine out of Emet-Selch—as if they were still Bonded in Aefenglom.
Another thing long left behind. He still misses it, even though he had grown so practiced that he could feel Emet-Selch's emotions even when they weren't technically there. They've... become something of a part of him, he thinks fondly.
But his own feelings were separate entities, so different as they were. So blissfully upbeat and relaxed, all of his troubles having been put on hold for a good night's sleep... Acknowledging Emet-Selch's intent with a smile, he continues reading his every word, until his eye blows wide and his smile drops.
A good... three night's sleep.]
Three days?????? You're kidding me! That's preposterous. I could never!
[Except for the fact that he believes it. Emet-Selch wouldn't lie to him like that, and there's no question he has about it. Mettaton gazes about the room for some sign of the passing days, before readjusting himself so the's not looking toward his side, but more propped up. ...The shoulder guards, despite having freshly grown them back, come off with an easy click. Mettaton wants to cuddle, and those are in the way for that. He sets them neatly aside.]
Oh, darling... I hope you didn't fret about my safety. Though I know it must have inspired unease. Whatever you asked for, I feel positively perfect, as fresh as having a new body. So... I hope you will come with great haste.
I want to see you.
[With something to tell him, he wanted it to be in person. He also wanted to see Emet-Selch's state after that mess, if three days have passed... He wanted to take a survey of his demeanor, his health, his injuries—and even though he wasn't the one with healing powers, even though Emet-Selch was the one who'd been left with those, he would still do what he could to heal him in return.
And additionally, Mettaton resolves, he wanted his husband to have his self back. If Kate could do it, then surely the same could be said for Emet-Selch. ...If on a larger scale.]
[Emet-Selch doesn't reiterate that yes, he did mean three days. Three whole days of None Mettaton. Longer than he'd ever taken to recharge, even from an entirely dead battery. Longer than he'd ever been in his company while simultaneously been without him. Three days that felt longer than they were, that passed in a dull haze of unease.
But they had passed all the same.]
Why would I fret when I was enjoying the quiet, the peace it provided my healing?
[Translation: fret. But smaller frets, or else he would've been more serious in his reply. It was difficult to type and walk, so during his replies, he pauses to write them out.]
I've now witnessed a robot heal as though he were made of flesh. 'Tis a sight I will not forget, no matter how I wish it were otherwise. I think it will take another Crystal-inspired miracle to erase those visions from my already crowded memory.
I also note you've yet to warn me as to this personal message you have for me. My steps slow even now.
[They do not. (He wanted to see him too, alive and whole and himself.) He's moving at his normal pace when he isn't typing, and while that could never be described as 'hurried', it's intent, and he's not that far besides. ...Ugh, maybe it would be worth his pride to plead for having teleportation back, if nothing else, sooner rather than later.]
[All of these admissions and lack of reiteration suggests indeed Emet-Selch's true feelings. He worried. It wasn't a severe worry, if he'd been... re-growing his body, which should suggest that he was unconscious for some healing-related purpose. Mettaton bites at his lip, still regretting the pain Emet-Selch had to endure, while appreciating terribly the result.
More than the regret, he felt the gratitude. It was unfortunate that he had to pass out, but he was well; he felt wonderful. He flexes the fingers of his once-missing hand.
Reading Emet-Selch's messages, though, Mettaton can't help but coyly reply at first:] I know what your healing needs. 💗💗💗 More of ME! 💗💗💗
[Apply Mettaton and feel healed. Mettaton knows this would be true; he also knows that Emet-Selch was advancing toward him, and he wiggles in place with the anticipation of it. He'd move to meet him part-way, but he decides against it, given that he ultimately wants them to unite right here. So his restless energy is heavied into the bed again, where he wriggles.]
You wouldn't forget many things without force involved, and don't lie to me. You don't care to forget my creeping recovery. Let visions of me continue to cloud that impeccable memory of yours. [Because aside from awful happenstance, yes, Emet-Selch's memory was impeccable and he means it. This is not to rub anything in. He remembered well, and it required intervention to make him forget, much to his dismay.
Mettaton sighs, reaching back to fluff up some pillows, to scoot to the side, making some more room for Emet-Selch to land. Fondly, he regards the spot.]
It's a personal message, all right. And one that I NEED to tell you. Oh, I can't keep still, I need to tell you so bad...!
[Is that enough of a warning? Mettaton knows Emet-Selch will not really slow. He was on his way, that, he was sure of.]
Let me reassure you, Hades-darling. None of it. By which I mean, I read all of it.
This one, darling, has become my designated responsibility. And if you're not willing to help me rear this budding dragon, how will I manage? You're the one with the parenting expertise between the two of us! Will I be a single parent...? What a cruel fate to subject a newborn to.
[That sure was an... egg. Or some sort of glittery pinecone. But for the moment, he would accept that it was indeed an egg, from a dragon. Which leads to one, most pressing question:]
Who on this godsforsaken star trusted you with the survival and rearing of their offspring?
[Presumably no relation to the Dragon Star... it didn't look like anything of Midgardsormr's brood.]
Put it back wherever you found it. My parenting experience, vast though it is, did not include dragonlings, and I've no desire to learn.
Hades. Do you mean to accuse me of being a poor choice for parenting? Of course I was trusted with such a beautiful, scaly vessel! Who else would be more trustworthy than me?
And anyway, too late!!! I accepted the egg from one of the townspeople, who had far too many on their hands. It seems all of the parents were flushed away... and the entire town is in need of as many couples as they can recruit. I took a shining to this one instantly, and its brilliant blues that nearly glow... You and I are this dragonling's last hope! I have faith that you can transpose what knowledge you have onto baby lizards. Haven't you ever dealt with anything like it?
Mettaton. Yes, I am accusing you of precisely that. Have you ever had so much as a pet before? Cared for a living entity more demanding than a ficus?
[With every word he types, Emet-Selch could feel ever more of this responsibility being foisted upon his shoulders. His refusals: ignored. His protests: denied. His future: dragon parent?]
Dragons are not native to my world, but are refugees chased there from beyond... and what I know of their rearing and constitution may be of little bearing here.
But as of yet, 'tis an egg. As with most eggs, it presumably seeks warmth.
Or, we could save me all future trouble and simply crack it open and eat it.
Hades!! The dragon... It left some manner of intricate print all over my beautiful body, and I can't wash it off!! Can you grab something stronger than some soap and water? Post-haste! Please, darling!!
[... Well, that's the message he sends. But their dragon hatched nicely. A deep blue dragon, dark as night, was quick to show off the flare of luminous blue to its scales that dotted its wings and body when in the presence of its 'parents.' Mettaton thought it beautiful, and had remarked upon its hatching, "Oh! Doesn't it remind you a little of Waterfall?"
And he'd smiled at Emet-Selch with his teeth, silly and—a bit taken aback at the notion that yes, Emet-Selch had seen Waterfall with him. A simple pleasure to bask in, to be known like that. Like an echo flower, he'd been sure to mention—but it was a broader thing than that, with all of the specks and sparkles of the deep caverns of Mettaton's home. And all things considered... Perhaps this dragonling was considered "mature" for its kind, and its age.
Though apparently, it still enjoyed a bit of mischief. And Mettaton was about to cause a fuss about it—but it wasn't the bite alone that would provoke Mettaton to call upon his husband. Something like Ruining Mettaton's Body would be enough for the vain idol to message him, though. Apparently.
None the wiser to whatever Emet-Selch was getting himself up to, nor what reciprocal "print" might be transferred to the other parent, no matter how distant.]
[For a moment- a brief moment- when Emet-Selch hears the sound of an incoming message, he knew a flash of hope.
It wasn't a daily walk that he took to the Crystal. But it wasn't so rarely that Emet-Selch found himself there either, as a part of his meanderings, absent or otherwise. The village wasn't so large, and the Crystal somewhat central; it would've been more difficult than otherwise to not see it on the regular. And even when he did, he didn't always wish for anything. It still grated, the need to ask for things he had every right to- but if this was the only way, then he'd suffer through it.
And this was one of those occasions where he... tried, on some hesitant whim. Complicated as his feelings were about this request, desire warring with ambivalence (As wasn't this the same as saying Mettaton's body as it is wasn't good enough for him? Even though this was something they both wanted and missed--), it wasn't enough to keep him from asking. Once more, he committed his request to silent facets, and waited for nothing.
A nothing that was broken by a simple chime. With more haste than he'd admit to, he whips his phone out, and sees that the message is indeed from Mettaton. But as soon as he scans it... he finds himself more disappointed than he might have expected.
It was nothing related to his wish at all, but some sort of strange crisis. Struggling to focus on the actual text, he frowns at it, confused over what had actually happened. Had their dragon gotten into some sort of paint...? But from where? It wasn't as though they had any lying about in the cottage. Did they have anything that would stain or stick to a robot? If it was that bad, it was surely more dangerous to the dragon.]
Isn't it your fault for not minding it? This is the price of being inattentive.
[More annoyed than he otherwise would be, given his sharp disappointment, he tries to shake it off. Concern was there too (for Mettaton, and more reluctantly the dragon), because it wasn't just anything that could damage his lover's body. Would he have to wish for another repair instead? At least he had experience with that working--
Exhaling heavily, he types a more practical reply.]
What did it even get into? I need to know what sort of substance I'm countering.
[He's not thinking about bites, given Mettaton's description. Besides, he'd been nipped multiple times himself by their dragonlet (usually in an effort to wake him up), and it hadn't even broken skin.]
I will have you know that I HAVE been minding it. I was just taking selfies together with it! Junior here decided that for our next pose, a little kiss was in order... but, you know how lizards are. Ha-ha. And before you know it, I'm printed up! It's as though they took a paintbrush...
And, darling. They have a VERY steady hand. These circles would envy even a machine, designed specifically for circle-printing.
[...He's just going to pretend that was more clever. (What kind of machine just prints circles...)]
All said, I was paying them plenty of attention! [And also his phone, and himself...]
[Okay, this sounded less and less as though the dragon had gotten into something... but what had happened? The more Mettaton described, the less sense it made, and the more he felt a headache coming on. Selfies, circles, circle-printing machines....]
So it bit you [Not kissed. Though, granted, in their household was there a practical difference? Not that he had many bites on him, really, in comparison to their past....] and some strange mark appeared.
[A strangely circular mark. Marks. Which didn't sound like an imprint of jaws or teeth, or any sort of physical scarring at all.]
All because you were boring it to death, your attention centered on your own face and naught else.
[Yea it was a bite. And Mettaton knows they have a household where bites and kisses are often one in the same, though he doesn't impress that upon their charge.]
Anyway. While we were having a mesmerizing time together, gazing upon our beautiful faces captured in time... yes. I was nipped. A little nibble, perhaps. But I felt it so sharply, Hades! As though it were biting me down to my core... Here! Take a look. And you know its teeth look nothing like this.
[Attached is a photo of Mettaton's rectangular body. Beneath his tubular arm, which is lifted, is an obvious, clear-as-day marking, deliberate and precise. Clean, symmetrical—sigil-like in appearance, and roughly the size of his own hand, fingers splayed.]
Edited (wait i realized perfect opportunity for SENSATION) 2023-06-03 21:46 (UTC)
To you, no. You can't blame me if your charge picks up your bad habits.
[Like considering biting as affection. That Mettaton felt it sharply does pique his interest, if not raise his hopes- as the robot hadn't mentioned anything else unusual in that regard. It was most likely the result of startle and memory of what a bite should have felt like- so Emet-Selch doesn't dwell overly long on that detail.
Not when he's sent an image of a rectangular side, engraved(?) on metal a very distinct set of patterned rings (and an unfamiliar bit in the middle). It wasn't anything like any sort of bite, and the mage halts entirely in his slow steps to stare at his phone.]
Mettaton, apart from the piece at the center, the rest is a symbol that I use in my magics. I would know it anywhere.
[Magics that he couldn't use, which felt like an added mockery, to see it drawn on another. But mainly it bewildered.]
[Circumstances were aligning just so, that Mettaton hasn't had a single moment to assess himself, aside from the unwelcome mark that showed up in his next selfie. Since then, the dragon has shifted into a sunbeam, and curled up in a nice, cat-like donut. Mettaton sits on the other side of the couch, tapping away on his phone—and between Emet-Selch's responses and his own, he glances back down at the tattoo.
He observes it. He can't feel it, but the marking's circles gently... move, a hypnotic rotation around the center stage light—which Mettaton recognizes instantly. Not necessarily as a symbol of his own, but its shape was obvious to him. The circular signs, though, looked familiar in some way...
When his phone beeps at him, he picks it up. The dragon readjusts, grumpy at the interruption of sound.]
Your magics... Oh! That's right! I was wondering where I'd see these marks before. But darling, the center is a stage light, of course. Though I would know best, given that I'm so often staring right into them!
[This deserves another healthy regard to this tattoo. Its rings drift, though the center remains still, and Mettaton tries to touch it with his free hand. Out of... what he decides is a sensitivity to the sudden presence of this magical marking??... he flinches; it's sore, it feels like.
(It's not sore, not really. But it feels like it, to Mettaton, who feels... suddenly, if gradually, overwhelmed by the air itself. The robot gasps to himself, for all that he doesn't use the air for any purpose.)]
Maybe, darling...
[He sends just that. No quips about the dragon picking up his habits, as he's increasingly distracted by... all else. For a moment, he flexes his fingers; the buttons feel... quite pronounced against his fingertips. Like pinpricks. He soldiers on.]
I'd have you come home straightaway, instead of embarking on your shopping errand for cleaners. Please.
[Which answered one question, and provided further information besides: somehow, somewhy, their dragon had bitten a pattern that represented both of them onto Mettaton's body.
Unbeknownst to him, when Mettaton touches the sigil scrawled into metal, a part of the Ascian's own body twinges- just about his hip, towards his own side. Distracted by what he'd seen on the phone, and considering what any of it meant, he ignored it; at his age, twinges happened.
Equally unknown is the faint movement of its patterned rings, given that all he had to look at was a static image. That, and any other strangeness the robot had noticed is beyond him, and even the sudden insistence that he return home immediately doesn't strike him oddly.]
I was planning on it. Something like that, I don't think can be rubbed off. Not without taking your side with it.
[Not that he'd given up, or was refusing to help with it- but it seemed neither immediately dangerous nor disfiguring. Additionally, it was mysterious, bizarre, and worthy of closer inspection before mulling over how to remove it. All of which he needed to do in person.]
I'm not too distant. We can see about what to do for it once I've returned.
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Sure, that meant they were both trapped in another world and being subjected to its terrors. But Mettaton had no regret for that left when he knew they both wanted to be together, even if he would do anything to spare Emet-Selch of any trouble. ...At the same time, he appreciated having him by his side to weather it all with him.
Maybe it was selfish, but MTT wouldn't deny he was plenty of that. But given the choice, he would wish for Emet-Selch to weather any hardship with him.
... It was but three days ago that he lost consciousness. Deep into sleep he fell after a drought of it, as Mettaton's body restored itself gradually. Where he'd collapsed was into a metal heap onto the floor, all without knowing. And into dreamland he slipped, where he imagined the love of his life, where he dreamed blissfully of banter and wry smiles, of teasing back-and-forths and the intensity of a bright, golden stare, fixed at him through a mirror past the flush of his cheeks. Where he could feel the touch of his fingers firm over his body, caressing and massaging every inch of his being until he lay unwound, sensitive and begging for more. Every part of his body tended and teased—even the parts he once had, but presently lacked in this realm...
Of course, the rest of his life was in a city between neon lights and pulsing music. Everything about it was what he'd shaped it to be... but he spent it with Emet-Selch. Thoughts stitched together in impressions is all he would wake with, though the sensation of having been pampered and loved stuck with him, even as he cracks open his eye.
Mettaton turns with a groan. He stretches, despite having no muscles to flex. Had he... slept? And with Emet-Selch not immediately nearby, he pouts, remembering his husband's discontent at having been alone upon waking during the heavy red moon. But the room wasn't dark, at least, and there was no hint of red moons. Just the regular air, the regular sounds, the peace and quiet in the housing district next to the gentle push of wind over Lake Omen's surface. Peaceful indeed, even if Somnius still felt like something of a fever dream. ...Even waking felt disorienting, to Mettaton, who finds himself flopping over.
With both hands, he reaches over for his device with a groan. That he has both hands is something he doesn't even notice, nor does he remember to note how good he felt. He was thinking about Emet-Selch—and the fact that he wasn't here.]
I hope this message finds you before I do. Because I want to know, why I'm sleeping in for longer than you! And after you bemoaned my absence at your bed-side... Hades, do I have to hunt you down and drag you home? What could be more important than
[... What was he doing? It felt like they were in a delicate situation before he'd... fallen asleep somehow. (How had he fallen asleep? Was the comfort he found in Emet-Selch's presence really so effective on a robot who didn't normally sleep??) After accidentally slipping a finger against the send button, Mettaton taps the phone idly with both thumbs. ... With both thumbs.]
Hades did you repair me??? HOW?
[And, another message:] Why do I have three arms.
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When he'd asked the Crystal for help, he hadn't known what to expect. His hopes hadn't been high, but his desperation had been increasing as the days passed. While Mettaton was technically in no danger of dying from his wounds, they were also alarmingly permanent, disfiguring. Inconvenient. And for all the cheerfulness his lover exhibited, the reassurance they both felt at being there together, there was no getting around that this wasn't how he wanted to be. For vanity and practicality both.
So once Emet-Selch was well enough to leave the cottage, he'd gone to the one possibility he knew about. And he asked, as politely- and genuinely- as he could. ...Of course, there had been no response, no sign that he hadn't been wishing it all to himself.
It was only when he'd returned to find one(1) Mettaton crumpled onto the floor of their modest abode that he had any sort of confirmation that the Crystal had heard him. This couldn't be a coincidence, and he felt first an exhausted sort of pique that this was his answer. His husband was made worse, because he'd dared to ask for anything (Though fortunately not dead, he could tell that much from the glow of his core. But unreachable, unresponsive, no matter what he tried.).
...He'd still carried Mettaton to bed, even though it wasn't as though robots could wake up with a sore back. He still muttered to himself about the dead weight he was made to haul around, as he tried to hold back his concern, his fears. Setting Mettaton up into a position 'comfortable', he set his severed arm next to him as it would surely be needed if it were going to... attach itself, somehow. He didn't know what to think.
Fortunately, it hadn't been long until he'd seen the first signs of change, if not of waking. A creep of silicone where there had been chunks missing; metal being filled in, thin layers at a time. Slow as it was, Emet-Selch first thought he was deluding himself, going completely mad over this new trial. But it was real. (He also took several photos to compare it, to further confirm to himself that he wasn't imagining things, and there were definitely changes. From hour to hour, things grew.)
Mettaton was healing. Bizarrely. Yet there was no sign of wires reaching out to reconnect to his old, mangled arm, but before Emet-Selch had the chance to worry that it wouldn't be included, he witnessed the birth of tubing curling out from under shoulderguards (which had also regrown from weird metal nubs into their normal dramatic shape). And from that modest nest... fingers. Mettaton was healing.
So Emet-Selch left their cottage from time to time, and this happened to be one of those times. And if he were wholly honest, he'd been sort of expecting Mettaton to rouse soonish. The last he checked, the damage that remained had been light, and it followed to him that it would all be concluded with a return to consciousness. Which doesn't mean he's not relieved to see the idol's message; he is, and his immediate delay in replying is partially due to that.
But it was also deliberate to chance not being there. And Mettaton's text justified that pettiness, to him. But he does eventually reply.]
An empty threat, you've no way of tracking me in your current form.
And I've done nothing. The air of this star must be good for you. Should I have disposed of the spare?
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Mettaton blames this on the dream-Emet-Selch, who so lovingly massaged him from head to toe, then back again, and generously so upon... some areas.
So he was in bed, and he did appreciate it. It was more glamorous besides, though he knew that Emet-Selch would remain on the floor with him if need be, as he had before. The point was this: he much preferred bed rest to being an appliance left as a heap on the floor!
He also just wanted Emet-Selch next to him. And he wasn't here, the way he would be upon waking as usual. He had two-to-three arms now, and could hold him tight... Mettaton huffs at his phone, as Emet-Selch deliberately delays the inevitable. (And MTT gets a growing sense that he was casually biding his time, for a very particular reason. More a reason to huff.)]
I may not be a Puca. But I don't need earrings or finding magic to hunt you down, darling. No, what I have on my side is my love for you... and everything I've come to learn about you. I could find you in a snap!
[That is the more playful, if heated, message. One that he still sends with a daunting smile upon his lips. The next, though, is more heartfelt.]
The air... Hades, are you sure you had nothing to do with this? It may not be unusual for me to dream about you... but I feel as though I spent the night in a luxurious resort, massaged up and down by your graceful hands and dexterous fingers. I feel I have you written all over me.
[The third arm is an oddity. Mettaton sends this message, and regards it quietly. What should've been done with this...]
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As he stayed with him, for more time than he didn't. Noting both his recovery and his stillness- a combination that reassured as much as it left him uneasy. A quiet, motionless Mettaton was an unnerving thing, and when he didn't know exactly why he was like that, beyond it having some connection to his wish for healing- left his own rest unsettled. What would he do if Mettaton healed entirely, but never woke up? What more would he have to be indebted to this Crystal for?
Fortunately, none of that came about, even if he hadn't been there to see it. Emet-Selch still ignores outright Mettaton's comment about being able to find him regardless. He knew it was true.]
Your imagination arrived intact, I see. Why in the world was I massaging you? You don't even have muscles.
[Sure, he had no hesitation, and no lack of desire towards placing his hands all over him. And if his dream self was anything like him, then he would've been the same. But that wasn't a massage... that was just groping. Handling. Even teasing.
He didn't know why he didn't just outright admit to having gone to the Crystal for help. Stubbornness, maybe. His relief to know it worked translating into pointless contrarianism.]
And you know entirely well that I don't have the means to repair you as I am. You're free to continue reminding me of this, again and again, if you choose.
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His phone vibrates with impending messages, but Mettaton's too busy dreaming of Emet-Selch wishing for his health, bowing before the Crystal with his husband in mind. How dreamy... Mettaton loves to be thought of and cared for, and it was a good use of shards. If he didn't wish it, it would have to be some spin on healing magic.
He was the culprit. That, Mettaton was sure of.
So he picks up his phone by twisting his wrist, reading over Emet-Selch's messages with a cheerful hum. (He felt so good, his mood included. The red moons felt lightyears away... even when he knew they'd just happened.) He taps away again, pulling his phone closer to his face as he relaxes his weight into the bed.]
My imagination, at our service! I don't need muscles to enjoy your touch, my love. And you were so thorough... Your touch, so deep. So, so deep... I'd salivate, if I could.
[Another thing lost: Mettaton's ability to produce saliva. Awkward as it was to sprout that function, it was a shame to lose.]
You haven't lost your resourcefulness, darling. And I bet you knew exactly what to do... and you did it in secret! Oh, Hades, you doll. Could I ask of you another favor? I want to tell you something, but I want to do so in person... Would you come to me?
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Shaking off a bit of the haze when he hears the notification sound, Emet-Selch frowns before he even begins reading it.]
Another thing left behind us.
[Mettaton's ability to salivate, that is. And strange as it was as a thing to miss- it had its uses.]
What 'resourcefulness' is it, when there's only one option left?
[Dissatisfaction remained, that he'd given in and asked this dubious source for a boon, and his fingers tighten around the phone. Even if some payment had been taken from him, it was one he couldn't completely quantify, which inspired his caution. He was certainly grateful for it as well, no matter the concern his lover's unconsciousness had brought, but that didn't mean he liked it.
Ambivalence, at best. He sighs into the night air, looks back up at the Crystal itself that he'd been lingering in the vicinity of. No more wishes required, for now.]
I'll return. How much should I be dreading whatever it is you're holding back from me? Your answer will determine my pace.
[A pause; he even takes a few steps, before stopping, and adding on impulse.]
You were unconscious for three days, Mettaton.
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Another thing long left behind. He still misses it, even though he had grown so practiced that he could feel Emet-Selch's emotions even when they weren't technically there. They've... become something of a part of him, he thinks fondly.
But his own feelings were separate entities, so different as they were. So blissfully upbeat and relaxed, all of his troubles having been put on hold for a good night's sleep... Acknowledging Emet-Selch's intent with a smile, he continues reading his every word, until his eye blows wide and his smile drops.
A good... three night's sleep.]
Three days?????? You're kidding me! That's preposterous. I could never!
[Except for the fact that he believes it. Emet-Selch wouldn't lie to him like that, and there's no question he has about it. Mettaton gazes about the room for some sign of the passing days, before readjusting himself so the's not looking toward his side, but more propped up. ...The shoulder guards, despite having freshly grown them back, come off with an easy click. Mettaton wants to cuddle, and those are in the way for that. He sets them neatly aside.]
Oh, darling... I hope you didn't fret about my safety. Though I know it must have inspired unease. Whatever you asked for, I feel positively perfect, as fresh as having a new body. So... I hope you will come with great haste.
I want to see you.
[With something to tell him, he wanted it to be in person. He also wanted to see Emet-Selch's state after that mess, if three days have passed... He wanted to take a survey of his demeanor, his health, his injuries—and even though he wasn't the one with healing powers, even though Emet-Selch was the one who'd been left with those, he would still do what he could to heal him in return.
And additionally, Mettaton resolves, he wanted his husband to have his self back. If Kate could do it, then surely the same could be said for Emet-Selch. ...If on a larger scale.]
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But they had passed all the same.]
Why would I fret when I was enjoying the quiet, the peace it provided my healing?
[Translation: fret. But smaller frets, or else he would've been more serious in his reply. It was difficult to type and walk, so during his replies, he pauses to write them out.]
I've now witnessed a robot heal as though he were made of flesh. 'Tis a sight I will not forget, no matter how I wish it were otherwise. I think it will take another Crystal-inspired miracle to erase those visions from my already crowded memory.
I also note you've yet to warn me as to this personal message you have for me. My steps slow even now.
[They do not. (He wanted to see him too, alive and whole and himself.) He's moving at his normal pace when he isn't typing, and while that could never be described as 'hurried', it's intent, and he's not that far besides. ...Ugh, maybe it would be worth his pride to plead for having teleportation back, if nothing else, sooner rather than later.]
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More than the regret, he felt the gratitude. It was unfortunate that he had to pass out, but he was well; he felt wonderful. He flexes the fingers of his once-missing hand.
Reading Emet-Selch's messages, though, Mettaton can't help but coyly reply at first:] I know what your healing needs. 💗💗💗 More of ME! 💗💗💗
[Apply Mettaton and feel healed. Mettaton knows this would be true; he also knows that Emet-Selch was advancing toward him, and he wiggles in place with the anticipation of it. He'd move to meet him part-way, but he decides against it, given that he ultimately wants them to unite right here. So his restless energy is heavied into the bed again, where he wriggles.]
You wouldn't forget many things without force involved, and don't lie to me. You don't care to forget my creeping recovery. Let visions of me continue to cloud that impeccable memory of yours. [Because aside from awful happenstance, yes, Emet-Selch's memory was impeccable and he means it. This is not to rub anything in. He remembered well, and it required intervention to make him forget, much to his dismay.
Mettaton sighs, reaching back to fluff up some pillows, to scoot to the side, making some more room for Emet-Selch to land. Fondly, he regards the spot.]
It's a personal message, all right. And one that I NEED to tell you. Oh, I can't keep still, I need to tell you so bad...!
[Is that enough of a warning? Mettaton knows Emet-Selch will not really slow. He was on his way, that, he was sure of.]
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text
Get back to me when you can, sweetheart! 💖 ~MTT
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I want no part of whatever you're trying to foist onto me, Mettaton.
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Hades. We're preggnant! Aren't you eggcited??? I know I am. Joined by the yolk of parenthood... you and I will make a fantabulous team.
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Absolutely not.
What part of I want no part of whatever you're trying to foist onto me did you elect not to read?
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This one, darling, has become my designated responsibility. And if you're not willing to help me rear this budding dragon, how will I manage? You're the one with the parenting expertise between the two of us! Will I be a single parent...? What a cruel fate to subject a newborn to.
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Who on this godsforsaken star trusted you with the survival and rearing of their offspring?
[Presumably no relation to the Dragon Star... it didn't look like anything of Midgardsormr's brood.]
Put it back wherever you found it. My parenting experience, vast though it is, did not include dragonlings, and I've no desire to learn.
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And anyway, too late!!! I accepted the egg from one of the townspeople, who had far too many on their hands. It seems all of the parents were flushed away... and the entire town is in need of as many couples as they can recruit. I took a shining to this one instantly, and its brilliant blues that nearly glow... You and I are this dragonling's last hope! I have faith that you can transpose what knowledge you have onto baby lizards. Haven't you ever dealt with anything like it?
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[With every word he types, Emet-Selch could feel ever more of this responsibility being foisted upon his shoulders. His refusals: ignored. His protests: denied. His future: dragon parent?]
Dragons are not native to my world, but are refugees chased there from beyond... and what I know of their rearing and constitution may be of little bearing here.
But as of yet, 'tis an egg. As with most eggs, it presumably seeks warmth.
Or, we could save me all future trouble and simply crack it open and eat it.
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text
[... Well, that's the message he sends. But their dragon hatched nicely. A deep blue dragon, dark as night, was quick to show off the flare of luminous blue to its scales that dotted its wings and body when in the presence of its 'parents.' Mettaton thought it beautiful, and had remarked upon its hatching, "Oh! Doesn't it remind you a little of Waterfall?"
And he'd smiled at Emet-Selch with his teeth, silly and—a bit taken aback at the notion that yes, Emet-Selch had seen Waterfall with him. A simple pleasure to bask in, to be known like that. Like an echo flower, he'd been sure to mention—but it was a broader thing than that, with all of the specks and sparkles of the deep caverns of Mettaton's home. And all things considered... Perhaps this dragonling was considered "mature" for its kind, and its age.
Though apparently, it still enjoyed a bit of mischief. And Mettaton was about to cause a fuss about it—but it wasn't the bite alone that would provoke Mettaton to call upon his husband. Something like Ruining Mettaton's Body would be enough for the vain idol to message him, though. Apparently.
None the wiser to whatever Emet-Selch was getting himself up to, nor what reciprocal "print" might be transferred to the other parent, no matter how distant.]
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It wasn't a daily walk that he took to the Crystal. But it wasn't so rarely that Emet-Selch found himself there either, as a part of his meanderings, absent or otherwise. The village wasn't so large, and the Crystal somewhat central; it would've been more difficult than otherwise to not see it on the regular. And even when he did, he didn't always wish for anything. It still grated, the need to ask for things he had every right to- but if this was the only way, then he'd suffer through it.
And this was one of those occasions where he... tried, on some hesitant whim. Complicated as his feelings were about this request, desire warring with ambivalence (As wasn't this the same as saying Mettaton's body as it is wasn't good enough for him? Even though this was something they both wanted and missed--), it wasn't enough to keep him from asking. Once more, he committed his request to silent facets, and waited for nothing.
A nothing that was broken by a simple chime. With more haste than he'd admit to, he whips his phone out, and sees that the message is indeed from Mettaton. But as soon as he scans it... he finds himself more disappointed than he might have expected.
It was nothing related to his wish at all, but some sort of strange crisis. Struggling to focus on the actual text, he frowns at it, confused over what had actually happened. Had their dragon gotten into some sort of paint...? But from where? It wasn't as though they had any lying about in the cottage. Did they have anything that would stain or stick to a robot? If it was that bad, it was surely more dangerous to the dragon.]
Isn't it your fault for not minding it? This is the price of being inattentive.
[More annoyed than he otherwise would be, given his sharp disappointment, he tries to shake it off. Concern was there too (for Mettaton, and more reluctantly the dragon), because it wasn't just anything that could damage his lover's body. Would he have to wish for another repair instead? At least he had experience with that working--
Exhaling heavily, he types a more practical reply.]
What did it even get into? I need to know what sort of substance I'm countering.
[He's not thinking about bites, given Mettaton's description. Besides, he'd been nipped multiple times himself by their dragonlet (usually in an effort to wake him up), and it hadn't even broken skin.]
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And, darling. They have a VERY steady hand. These circles would envy even a machine, designed specifically for circle-printing.
[...He's just going to pretend that was more clever. (What kind of machine just prints circles...)]
All said, I was paying them plenty of attention! [And also his phone, and himself...]
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So it bit you [Not kissed. Though, granted, in their household was there a practical difference? Not that he had many bites on him, really, in comparison to their past....] and some strange mark appeared.
[A strangely circular mark. Marks. Which didn't sound like an imprint of jaws or teeth, or any sort of physical scarring at all.]
All because you were boring it to death, your attention centered on your own face and naught else.
Send me a picture of the damage.
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[Yea it was a bite. And Mettaton knows they have a household where bites and kisses are often one in the same, though he doesn't impress that upon their charge.]
Anyway. While we were having a mesmerizing time together, gazing upon our beautiful faces captured in time... yes. I was nipped. A little nibble, perhaps. But I felt it so sharply, Hades! As though it were biting me down to my core... Here! Take a look. And you know its teeth look nothing like this.
[Attached is a photo of Mettaton's rectangular body. Beneath his tubular arm, which is lifted, is an obvious, clear-as-day marking, deliberate and precise. Clean, symmetrical—sigil-like in appearance, and roughly the size of his own hand, fingers splayed.]
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[Like considering biting as affection. That Mettaton felt it sharply does pique his interest, if not raise his hopes- as the robot hadn't mentioned anything else unusual in that regard. It was most likely the result of startle and memory of what a bite should have felt like- so Emet-Selch doesn't dwell overly long on that detail.
Not when he's sent an image of a rectangular side, engraved(?) on metal a very distinct set of patterned rings (and an unfamiliar bit in the middle). It wasn't anything like any sort of bite, and the mage halts entirely in his slow steps to stare at his phone.]
Mettaton, apart from the piece at the center, the rest is a symbol that I use in my magics. I would know it anywhere.
[Magics that he couldn't use, which felt like an added mockery, to see it drawn on another. But mainly it bewildered.]
But what's it doing on you?
[And how did a dragon put it there?]
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He observes it. He can't feel it, but the marking's circles gently... move, a hypnotic rotation around the center stage light—which Mettaton recognizes instantly. Not necessarily as a symbol of his own, but its shape was obvious to him. The circular signs, though, looked familiar in some way...
When his phone beeps at him, he picks it up. The dragon readjusts, grumpy at the interruption of sound.]
Your magics... Oh! That's right! I was wondering where I'd see these marks before. But darling, the center is a stage light, of course. Though I would know best, given that I'm so often staring right into them!
[This deserves another healthy regard to this tattoo. Its rings drift, though the center remains still, and Mettaton tries to touch it with his free hand. Out of... what he decides is a sensitivity to the sudden presence of this magical marking??... he flinches; it's sore, it feels like.
(It's not sore, not really. But it feels like it, to Mettaton, who feels... suddenly, if gradually, overwhelmed by the air itself. The robot gasps to himself, for all that he doesn't use the air for any purpose.)]
Maybe, darling...
[He sends just that. No quips about the dragon picking up his habits, as he's increasingly distracted by... all else. For a moment, he flexes his fingers; the buttons feel... quite pronounced against his fingertips. Like pinpricks. He soldiers on.]
I'd have you come home straightaway, instead of embarking on your shopping errand for cleaners. Please.
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[Which answered one question, and provided further information besides: somehow, somewhy, their dragon had bitten a pattern that represented both of them onto Mettaton's body.
Unbeknownst to him, when Mettaton touches the sigil scrawled into metal, a part of the Ascian's own body twinges- just about his hip, towards his own side. Distracted by what he'd seen on the phone, and considering what any of it meant, he ignored it; at his age, twinges happened.
Equally unknown is the faint movement of its patterned rings, given that all he had to look at was a static image. That, and any other strangeness the robot had noticed is beyond him, and even the sudden insistence that he return home immediately doesn't strike him oddly.]
I was planning on it. Something like that, I don't think can be rubbed off. Not without taking your side with it.
[Not that he'd given up, or was refusing to help with it- but it seemed neither immediately dangerous nor disfiguring. Additionally, it was mysterious, bizarre, and worthy of closer inspection before mulling over how to remove it. All of which he needed to do in person.]
I'm not too distant. We can see about what to do for it once I've returned.
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