[Motions mechanically followed by both robot and ancient, the two of them finally fall into something of an embrace, on two ends of a spectrum of exhaustion. They cling to each other. As Emet-Selch buries himself instead into Mettaton's body, curling into him, the robot facilitates, holding him tight. His ankles continue to flex; his legs are shifted, one lifted and draped over Emet-Selch's hip before sliding down his thigh, then stretched out. Tension was full and alight in his body, and there was no relief from it save ruination. He's taken part in that tango of his demise before, where he worked himself into pieces for the sake of following the allure of a heated body.
He wished he could sleep. Could dream in the privacy of his own little world, as he did when Emet-Selch had done him the mercy of healing him. He'd had a perfect dream, idyllic in all of its aspects, from a husband who still found him attractive and not repulsive (even though he knew it wasn't that simple) to having the body to show his feelings with in full. How he knew he could dance and emote, more than he ever could... But this, this was a special sort of intimacy.
He almost snorts at himself for longing for sleep of all things. He'd never wanted it so much... to dream. But he thought he better understood Emet-Selch, more than ever... if he didn't know better, that Emet-Selch often dreamed of tragedy unending rather than blissful relief.
But they craved intimacy, and that was expressed in the way they came together right now. Even though he felt sad, even though he felt it as yet another heat that burned, heat waves even rising from the seams of his shoulders. (Even though he lacked the ability to channel his warmth into the qualities of a heater, his intense heat had to be expressed in some way. And that way would escape through the edges of his body, one way or another.) He exhales more of that warmth, letting it escape into Emet-Selch's hair as he lets his fingers drift slowly, methodically along the lines of Emet-Selch's back, up the side of his spine then back down.
(He wished he could feel him more sharply. He doesn't realize that his gentle touch is a bit firmer than he knows.)]
I believe. [That's what he offers, squeezing their bodies together.] I don't know how yet... but, I believe.
[And more than that, he hoped. Hard. He didn't want to go so far as to suggest that he couldn't bear living like this... but when he wanted something bad enough, when Emet-Selch wanted something—they were a force to be reckoned with.
He breathes Emet-Selch in. Unable to smell him, he tries not to even imagine it, instead focusing on the qualities of what he could feel of his hair against his lips. And he smiles; sensitivity burns him when he notices the way strands of white brush over his lips, as he kisses him. It dizzied, if in a way that ached.]
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He wished he could sleep. Could dream in the privacy of his own little world, as he did when Emet-Selch had done him the mercy of healing him. He'd had a perfect dream, idyllic in all of its aspects, from a husband who still found him attractive and not repulsive (even though he knew it wasn't that simple) to having the body to show his feelings with in full. How he knew he could dance and emote, more than he ever could... But this, this was a special sort of intimacy.
He almost snorts at himself for longing for sleep of all things. He'd never wanted it so much... to dream. But he thought he better understood Emet-Selch, more than ever... if he didn't know better, that Emet-Selch often dreamed of tragedy unending rather than blissful relief.
But they craved intimacy, and that was expressed in the way they came together right now. Even though he felt sad, even though he felt it as yet another heat that burned, heat waves even rising from the seams of his shoulders. (Even though he lacked the ability to channel his warmth into the qualities of a heater, his intense heat had to be expressed in some way. And that way would escape through the edges of his body, one way or another.) He exhales more of that warmth, letting it escape into Emet-Selch's hair as he lets his fingers drift slowly, methodically along the lines of Emet-Selch's back, up the side of his spine then back down.
(He wished he could feel him more sharply. He doesn't realize that his gentle touch is a bit firmer than he knows.)]
I believe. [That's what he offers, squeezing their bodies together.] I don't know how yet... but, I believe.
[And more than that, he hoped. Hard. He didn't want to go so far as to suggest that he couldn't bear living like this... but when he wanted something bad enough, when Emet-Selch wanted something—they were a force to be reckoned with.
He breathes Emet-Selch in. Unable to smell him, he tries not to even imagine it, instead focusing on the qualities of what he could feel of his hair against his lips. And he smiles; sensitivity burns him when he notices the way strands of white brush over his lips, as he kisses him. It dizzied, if in a way that ached.]
I love you, after all.