[Fortunately, the idyllic nature of his dream had nothing to do with skewing Emet-Selch's person. But it was a time where he himself was capable of being pleasured—and that was something presently lost, an immutable fact that Emet-Selch reminds him is true. He squeezes his eye closed.

Of course, it was still idealization. An escape he couldn't reach.

It wasn't him that Emet-Selch couldn't get off to, but the fact that he mourned, the fact that he was raw, the fact that they both missed something that couldn't be so easily attained, haunted them, and dampend their spirits. Sleep would permit him the relief of dreaming of a time where such obstacles weren't a thing... But when he considers it as an escape from life, he faces it with increasing resolution, and hurt to match.

But he feels soft while agitated, and sighs again up close to Emet-Selch. Sleep may have been a quick way out, but time would press onward. If Emet-Selch slept... Mettaton would content himself with remaining by his side. He would think; he would brainstorm. He would take action in the form of dreaming, which he knew he was so good at doing.

He pats Emet-Selch against his upper back, envisioning the way he'd once been capable of feeling the texture of warm skin under equally warm fingertips. He'd once been a human, after all... What was possible here? Mettaton knew he could cheer himself up—and he would, if not so that he could work on cheering Emet-Selch up, too. But he needed time.]

Oh, I'll show you what a little love can change. I... merely need to ponder it some more. [He squeezes Emet-Selch again, as he stretches both of his legs.] This is what we have. For now. But... I won't throw in the towel.