[Emet-Selch had done nothing whatsoever to deserve an upgraded stay at this exclusive hotel- however, he knew Mettaton had, and was entirely willing to mooch off of his winnings and room with him. The price of his agreeing to come along, he would claim, as though there had been any sort of negotiation involved.
But there were things to do in this part of Hokkaido that didn't involve only taking advantage of free luxury. And now that he was here what was there to do but explore, take in whatever local marvels were present? Which included a castle with warnings attached, a place claimed by ice rather than made from it. And with the folklore of the area itself of mild intrigue, he might as well have a look around. It would kill some time if nothing more.
Appropriately attired against the cold, gloves in place, the Ascian occasionally prods at bits of the frozen-over decor. Lamps, tablesettings, framed artworks (whose subjects remained barely discernible beneath the thick ice), all of it is summarily judged with an idle touch- but most of it he simply observes, taking the lonely surroundings in on his slow meander through these maze-like halls, unconcerned at the prospect of becoming lost when he could teleport himself wherever he pleased.
The first mirror he finds is notable by virtue of being the one thing not iced over, its surface preternaturally clear- reason enough to at least spare it a glance. And despite not being the sort of person to find the sight of himself particularly riveting, he stops short. He stares; brighter eyes than the ones he wore stare back, startled.
It was not an unfamiliar reflection. It couldn't have been any more familiar, a body that remained how he saw himself to this day, no matter what shell he wrapped himself in.
And the sights beyond, a glimpse of a place far removed from some cold, dead castle and this host of convenience... sights of something better. Drawing back from it, he frowns, pensive, looking away while seeing nothing but what had been (what should have been). There was obviously magic at play here, but to what end? Yes, there had been the warning of identity-stealing phantoms, but this was merely a reflection. Was it intended as a distraction, a cruelty, or a kindness? Was it with no aim whatsoever, but only his feelings made manifest upon some sensitive object left here when the castle was abandoned?
With uneasy curiosity, he moved on, steps echoed and heavier for them. And as his exploration continued, ascending each floor of the keep, every new mirror with old sights was a reason to persist.
(It could've been an insult, a mockery of his pain. How dare some power outside his command show images of something so personal. Those delicate spires, and broad stone streets; the sky above that had stretched forever. And a part of him did find it presumptuous, these displays. Yet with each floor... melancholy struck him too, if that perpetual longing could be described as something so mild. Every mirror was an indulgence, a glimpse unnecessary into a place he knew by heart.
And what harm was that? The dead were entitled to some amount of nostalgia, he thought.)
Finally he could ascend no further, by now knowing to search out the floor's mirror with immediacy, knowing there had to be one. Would some answer arise when he saw himself in this final mirror, or would he be left with nothing more than this, provoked memories from before the end? Steeling himself for absolutely nothing, Emet-Selch faced that reflection unblinking- and saw nothing more.
Instead, another entity manifests, to stand tall before the now minute mirror--
--and immediately smacks his head into the ceiling, with a startled, offended yelp. Hunching over automatically, the Amaurotine scans his surroundings with a scowl of continued offense that was quickly becoming something appropriately disgruntled. (What was this, a castle for children?) Even if adjusting his height to better match his surroundings was a simple thing for his magic, it's done with considerable indignation.
So the Emet-Selch that eventually emerges from the keep is nothing remarkable in appearance. Shoulder-length, completely white hair frames his face, but more notable perhaps is the slight luminance of his eyes. A brighter, clearer gold, the sort of thing that looked like they might even be visible in the dark with the way they shone. Garbed in simple black robes, in this initial period of some disorientation, he's neglected to put back in place the red mask that's affixed at his chest.
He knew what he was doing here... in a sense. But his actions thus far in this Nippon, his behavior in general- he would have some choice words for himself, if he could.
Returning to the safer grounds of the hotel proper, his manner is distracted, thoughtful, as he went through what he knew of this place. Of himself, and what he was meant to do with this opportunity. Despite not being especially dressed for the cold, it doesn't seem to be bothering him whatsoever, as Emet-Selch finds himself lingering amidst the flowerbeds, a dark blight amongst their delicacy.
Still sorting himself out (Still judging his past deeds... had he really gone about in a half-transformed state? In public?? And had sex in public too... he wasn't sure which was worse.), it would be the simplest thing for anything or anyone to get the jump on him.]
[When Emet-Selch leaves for a bit, it doesn't bother Mettaton, and he lets him go... wherever he'd like, really, even if that includes cursed castles. There would be chances for him to tag along, but they weren't joined at the hip or anything. He'd bid him farewell, deciding to indulge in the luxury of their stay for a bit—as it wasn't as though their accommodations at home were anywhere as nice, and Mettaton has a mind for such things.
(In reality, he tries his hand at shapeshifting, wondering if he couldn't master a human shape... His attempts lately at any sort of shapeshifting have been a bit wobbly, having to fuse both his understanding of a Puca's magic with the use of his own in its stead. It's led to a lot of mishaps, extra appendages, unintentional materials, malformed parts that just don't seem right. But Mettaton's pride is such that he wants to make sure that he's not all talk, even though he continues to boast that he should be plenty capable in no time. If he can time it right at all, he'll master shapeshifting soon enough...
Though he knows he'll reach a point where he'll need to ask for guidance. Here and there, he spends his moments examining, re-learning intricacies that he'd overlooked before... He would manage a complete shapeshift soon, and won't settle for less. Besides, he wants to take a luxurious bath without risking his chassis! He can't immerse himself in water in this body.)
From afar, Mettaton can still feel Emet-Selch... to a degree. Be it because of honed Puca senses or a bond fostered with Kizuna, he knew he was there, and knew, at least, that there was no harm befalling him... probably. For the most part Mettaton spends his evening lounging, though he takes a jaunt about the hotel proper, nosing into other people's business while his husband's away. Intrigue of all kinds but a diversion, as enough time passes hat he begins to wonder what Emet-Selch found so interesting so as to be away from his side for this long...
Before he can even consider venturing toward the castle of ice (and he does consider it, lured by the mystery of it just enough for it to warrant curiosity), Mettaton rounds the corner, as if drawn by... something. Around back, still on hotel grounds, he knows well enough by now that a garden of flowers carved of glistening crystal decorates this courtyard. That they're cold, though, he doesn't quite realize.
And really, their near glowing radiance only enhances the darkness that deigns to sit in their center. The tallest bloom of them all, topped in a head of white perched upon a tall, dark stem, is a man of particular significance. Of particular strength, his soul enough that even Mettaton can see it without invoking it.
Mettaton's lips part. He sees him from behind, but doesn't quite realize anything's amiss... Did he choose to alter the shape of his host? Mettaton props his fist upon his hip, cloaked in a dark, double-breasted coat that ends mid-thigh. His ears stand tall and swivel in curiosity somewhat, trying to get a read on the situation, before ultimately leaning forward in interest.
(Did he even notice he was here? MTT's ear twitches. Why is Emet-Selch so lost in thought?)
Smirking devilishly, Mettaton indeed decides to get the jump on him, crystal flowers be damned. Ears perked in high alert, he tiptoes a step or two before launching for Emet-Selch, wrapping his arms about his waist from behind, and opting to lift him in a warm, tight embrace.]
Hades! Here you are. Really...? Did you think you could somehow escape my notice with a little costume change, darling? How bold of you. But I see you clearly, beautiful.
[No, Mettaton does not truly believe Emet-Selch was trying to evade him. But why does he have white hair right now...? He didn't remember his clothes being quite like this, either. Without hesitation, Mettaton pushes his face into Emet-Selch's shoulder, still not realizing that too much is amiss, aside from... the obvious change in body. The soul he sees is no different.]
You're with your natural hair and everything! [He gasps, his arm snaking up and tousling a lock of white hair, even while Mettaton has him wrapped in his bendy arms.] Did you wish to blend in with the snow? What's the occasion?
[Mettaton had seen only a glimpse of the Ascian in long, dark robes. He'd seen him with his mask on, hood up; and he'd seen his approximation of a Puca. But that is not the same as this, which sparks Mettaton's excitement, wanting to know more. He latches on, holding Emet-Selch tight.]
[The sneaking itself was likely unnecessary; Mettaton could've announced himself at several points and it would've been lost on him. He was completely unguarded and thoroughly distracted (This was the sort of adventure he would expect of Azem, and he briefly considers whether this was somehow his doing, before grudgingly dismissing it. A rare thing that he couldn't blame on him, nor Hythlodaeus (probably).), brow furrowed out of simple habit.
Suddenly: arms (winding, snake-like), words (cheerful, excited).
And a presence (familiar) that tied it all together, as he was practically lifted from the ground by a powerful robotic grip. For the second time in a relatively short while the Amaurotine's voice is given to a startled yelp, though this time it's also accompanied by a few moments of less-than-dignified flailing before recognition catches up with him and he gets a hold of himself (if not as tight a hold as the puca had on him).]
M- Mettaton!
[An accusation in a single word.
Tracing back the events of this morning, of the time spent both at this resort and upon this star as a whole, Emet-Selch was entirely conscious that while 'he' had performed all of these things, that it wasn't quite the same 'he'. There was no confusion there, even if it was an odd thing to experience, to remember these acts, these thoughts, while knowing he hadn't been the origin of them.
Among those things, he remembered his own feelings, his own heart. Questionable as he found his behavior, events that were beyond his ability to recall (an echo of an echo... the affairs on this 'Aefenglom' were largely blank to him, apart from whatever he'd spoken about with Mettaton here), he must've had reason for it all. Including becoming supernaturally married to this... Mettaton (there is, however, no record of it on his finger; that ring remained with that other version of himself).
Which all serves to keep his affront under control (yet at the same time, had it been a complete stranger, he would've fallen back into exasperated politeness, merely assuming that they must've thought he were someone else... the idea that anyone could mean him harm doesn't occur to him). It wasn't as though his friends hadn't ever greeted him in... well, less exuberant (that is, touchy) fashions, but had certainly taken advantage of his zoning out.
It felt natural and entirely not to tolerate the embrace that Mettaton settles into, head tucked into his shoulder, and positioning a work that spoke of utter familiarity with him. And while his shoulders tense, it had less to do with any discomfort at being held (the affection he had for him was too pervasive, even as it also struck him as bizarre), and more at this display being given in ostensible public. ...Fortunately it didn't seem as though there was anyone nearby (and a quick glance around didn't reveal any other souls around that he might've also been oblivious to; this show of intimacy could go unobserved).
About to chide him to remember where they were, his words are once again lost at the surprise in the robot's voice, the (again, exceedingly familiar) stroke through his hair. If there had been any doubts left about being involved with this man(? though alive, Emet-Selch wasn't quite sure what he was; some sort of familiar? Had he truly gotten married to some manner of creation, however sentient and soul-bearing? What in the world had he been thinking?) they were summarily dispelled.
...Natural hair. As if he would have any other kind- but he remembers with another frown as to how the body he'd been wearing here hadn't been his own. Not on any level, though he could recall some similarities to himself. Why he'd needed the bodies of others in the first place was in itself something to invoke a mild horror, and also something he chooses to avoid addressing.
Settling down, he stares back over his shoulder with bright eyes and an otherwise completely usual scowl.]
--Nevermind my clothes- [Good, normal robes like everyone wore. Or- not, if his memories of the cities here were accurate. Gods, the sea of uncovered faces present on this world, the plethora of fashion... such unrestrained individualism. For a second he goes blank, stricken by a form of culture shock, before stubbornly pushing that aside as well.] why are you even wearing a coat?
[At least put on a robe... (even if familiars could get away with being more improper, oddly shaped as they often were). This is, for some reason, the first point of protest; he knew Mettaton couldn't experience the cold (and realized too, that he would have a harder time discerning his own lower temperature... not that Emet-Selch intended to hide what he was from his apparent lover(!), but he hesitates too, to volunteer it).]
'Tis no occasion, only the work of some unexpected magic. [Sighing; though he refrains from squirming, he can only delay this protest for so long:] More importantly, try to remember we're in full view of anyone who passes by.
[Not that Mettaton had done worse than hug him tight, but that was plenty. Even so, it's a protest not of the intimacy but of their location. This may be a foreign world with its own social codes, but he had a reputation.]
[Just the sound of Emet-Selch's surprise has Mettaton's grin blooming that bit wider, that bit more mischievous. He's pleased to have gotten him so thoroughly, unaware that the mage was that entrenched in his thoughts, and further unaware that his guard was unusually lowered. The flailing, too, is especially darling, in Mettaton's parlance, and he makes known his endearment when he rubs his cheeks into his shoulders, scenting him and expressing his affection for him with a bright laugh.
(Briefly, he can't help but feel he doesn't smell the same. That there's a chill upon his clothes that he can detect upon his lips—that, at least, is reasonable. They're outside, after all... Though he would've expected at least a touch of heat radiating from an organic body.
As for the scent, Mettaton continues not to think anything's amiss. Work of the wind; work of this change of clothes, or change of... hosts/forms. He would just have to impress himself upon him anew.)
Keeping him wound up in his embrace, Mettaton eases Emet-Selch down just enough to allow the Amaurotine to regain his footing after his struggle. This grants him just enough time to catch Emet-Selch's wary glancing, which Mettaton also doesn't think too much of, not yet. He's busy living moment to moment, and right now, he's busy with his heart overfull for him, curious and eager, ears propped up in interest.
Likewise, he remains totally unaware of his husband's(?) thoughts on him, likening him to an odd, soul-bearing familiar. Blissfully unaware of the world he'd so freshly come from entirely, still firmly believing that he was just taking on a different form.
But with Emet-Selch on the ground, still held flush to Mettaton's front, the smaller man in his arms turns over his shoulder to scowl at him. To look at him, with eyes that shock Mettaton to his core, enough that he totally doesn't catch his protest about his fine coat.
Expression morphing into that of shock, Mettaton finds himself nearly clamoring on him, leaning into him with both body and ears.]
Oh, Hades... [When Mettaton relinquishes his hold on Emet-Selch's waist, it's only to force him to spin by manhandling his body. He encourages him to face him, where he presses flush to his front, his fingers skimming up his chest to press fingers to his cheek.] My stars! Your eyes, they're...
[If the near sparkle in Mettaton's own eyes, eager and transfixed, doesn't imply his sentiment well enough, what would? Beautiful, he wants to say, but he merely gazes into them, lost at the sight of him. ...Enough so that he totally misses his protest about how visible they were to passersby, too.
Unexpected magic, though, he clings to. What sort of unexpected magic was this? Mettaton pulls himself together, gasping in eagerness as his eyes brighten—though not in the same sense that Emet-Selch's are nearly luminous, their gentle glow hypnotizing and worth coveting.]
What sort of magic have you had a run-in with, that gives you white hair and such dazzling eyes? Why, you're so— Is...
[A beat. The clothes, the mask pressed between their bodies. The gold of his eyes, the white framing his face... Mettaton gasps again, his hand fisting itself into Emet-Selch's robes squarely between his shoulder blades, while his thumb traces the corner of his eye.]
Is this... what you used to look like?!
[Expression open, ears leaning more than ever, Mettaton's on the precipice of joy at the thought. He couldn't have imagined the minute details that make up his lover's original body, if this is it. He soaks in any small tweaks of his face, from the lack of tiredness under his eyes to the animation of his expression, but especially the transfixing quality of his golden gaze.
Being in public naturally falls to the wayside of Mettaton's concerns. And having any protests lodged, too, becomes secondary, though a part of his subconscious ruminates over the now-processed warning. Why would Emet-Selch be so concerned about anybody viewing them...? Was there something amiss? (This body, he wonders... Is this a private sight to him? He hadn't even been given the chance to see it before, so he begins to wonder if that's the case, and his arm shifts as his shoulders foll forward, protective of his husband's visage and ready to cloak him if that's the issue.]
[There was something about Mettaton's reaction, these moments of a dynamic at play, that felt like a taste of normalcy in a way that went beyond the memories he had of this place, and of him. It was a point to reassure, oddly; his other self had been beset by the same sort of terrible person he was used to. Marriage aside, in an instant, this felt like a person that he knew--
...Of course, his friends normally did less scent-marking of him than this- an act that has the mage simply freeze up in the taller man's hold, as though he couldn't quite believe what the puca was doing. (Familiars, he eventually decides with a sort of condescending acceptance. Frequently more animal than man, even if this one's lagomorphic features had taken time to develop. Mettaton probably couldn't help that instinct.
And while Emet-Selch did smell like himself, there was naturally nothing of Mettaton left on him, on neither skin nor clothing. And that chill... superficially it's nothing strange; he'd been out in the cold for some time. But his body carries the same ambiance of the air, and while he's not at all icy, there's no suggestion of any sort of generated warmth. Strangely, deeper inside his body, the colder he grew, with the tepidity of his skin the warmest he could be.)
A break from being held up was welcome, a piece of his dignity regained as he's permitted his footing- but one that is just as swiftly lost again as he's turned around in those winding arms. A noise of protest escapes his throat at this handling, for all that he's struck silent again as he finds himself face-to-face with his... with Mettaton.
As he finds himself being gazed at with such fascination, paired with the hand on his face (another gesture inappropriate for public consumption, a touch that would suggest too much of their relationship), his own eyes widen at it all, breath catching and pulse suddenly quicker.
As rather than annoyance or indifference, frustration or confusion, the Amaurotine's reaction is clearly that of someone flustered. He'd never been looked at like that before, been considered so deeply or so fondly, and when it came paired with the strong affection he'd inherited in return, it struck him speechless.
This time, he's the one who mostly misses what Mettaton was saying, as he tries to collect himself, his furrowed brow something defensive, reflexive; for a few seconds, he even closes those eyes (which just leaves him more aware of the press of fingers to his face, the hand clutching tight into the robes at his back). But when a thumb strokes at the corner of an eye they open right back up again, to be no less caught by the lean of the puca's ears, the rapt attention writ into every line in that robotic face. Far more attention than he was at all used to; his lips part to speak. Nothing immediately emerges.
But when one of Mettaton's questions finally registers, it draws a blink, a reply slipping from him without thought.]
Used to? Mettaton, this is how I've always--
[But hadn't he just remembered that detail too? The sight of himself in various mirrors (the puca had already obtained a few of them to display in their modest residence), dark brown hair with a lone white streak. A perpetual exhaustion, something that made him look older than he was, and with eyes made so dull they barely seemed the same color at all. Regularly, he went out without any sort of mask, as though this other form were concealment enough... and perhaps it was. It was hard to see himself in it, in a way that had little to do with hair color or style.]
Have you really never seen me this way....
[But why? He just couldn't understand it- why he was in that body to start with, and why he'd been withholding this from his very husband. Cutting that thought off, distracted by the way Mettaton curls closer (though Emet-Selch was a touch harder to obscure in this body, having gained a few inches over that strange host... though he was still shorter than the robot), he wasn't quite sure what to make of his intent. But it was a reminder too of the other aspect of the puca's hands on him, the... unseemliness of it. These were reactions personal, so in that sense he would be grateful at being obscured if it weren't so intimate in the first place. So he lodges another protest.]
We are still in public, behave yourself.
[Though when he raises a hand to the one Mettaton has on his face, as if to nudge it aside, to encourage a return to propriety, his fingers linger over his instead, caught between reflex and... other reflex. The instinct that didn't want to lose that contact- and everything else which reminded him of where they were and what was appropriate.]
[Peculiar, he notes; Emet-Selch is taller. Though smaller than he is, the robot readily notes that he's coming up a few inches higher than he's accustomed to... Could it be the particular pair of heels he has on? A pair he'd purchased from a shop owned by a still-dated but eager refugee, they are formed to his feet, in something of a familiarly pseudo-victorian fashion in white tipped with black... But he didn't think that their height made him shorter than usual, did they? No, he felt confident he stood well at his usual size.
Yet as he cuddles Emet-Selch close, the other man remains conspicuously taller. Conspicuously un- marked, no longer layered in syrupy cherry. All which still remains within the realm of believable, given the change in body. That, he supposes, also explains the height...
Emet-Selch gawks at him with such an expression that Mettaton's ear flicks, finding it novel, interesting. It's not a face he's readily made for him before, especially over something this comparatively innocuous... Brow quirking in intrigue, Mettaton chuckles lowly at Emet-Selch's... embarrassment?
It's too adorable, he finds himself thinking. But it also piques his curiosity in a more suspicious way... Why on earth is his husband so flustered?
It makes sense to him suddenly, when Emet-Selch fumbles over his honest reply. How he's always looked—Mettaton's ears spring totally upright, and he corrects himself quickly.]
Oh! Yes. You know what I mean. [The hand upon his cheek lifts just to wave it off.] Your body. The one you've always envisioned as... you.
[A tricky thing, and one Mettaton's asked after before... but to little avail. Emet-Selch never showed it to him, and often evaded the subject, he recalls. Why present it to him now? Both of them can't figure out why Mettaton could have married this man, and never seen his native body...
Mettaton plants his hand upon Emet-Selch's cheek again, brushing the back of a claw over his cheekbone, up his temple, and along his brow, fawning over his features, when Emet-Selch sternly protests the action altogether—much to Mettaton's apparent surprise. The robot makes a questioning hum that rises in intonation, a minor tilt of his head there to accompany parted lips, as Emet-Selch's fingers rise to rest against his hand—but do nothing more than that.
Open confusion blooms into a sultry gleam, as Mettaton flutters his lashes and hums deep and low. His palm presses more firmly to his lover's cheek, as if encouraged there by his touch, as he smiles warmly at him.]
Behave myself...? My my. It's a little late for being my bashful bride, my dear...
[He'd never been especially ashamed in the face of public acts of affection before... And if anything, Mettaton is only encouraged by Emet-Selch's obvious weakness to his touch. Two warring impulses, he notes with an appraising eye, watching as his lover's face morphs with open emotion, as his protesting touch lingers upon his hand rather than prying it away.
Mettaton leans forward to kiss his cheek, as chaste as he can make it. He is behaving, this kiss seems to assert.]
When has our audience ever been a concern to you? Or... Ooooh. [Even more lascivious does his expression melt, his smile spreading, dark-painted lid curtaining his sharp gaze.] Would you rather I whisk you away to somewhere more... private? I do want to get a better look at you, after all.
[As if this was his most natural form, a body made to appear like his native one... Mettaton was terribly lured, wanting to see him completely. He yearns to take him apart, to be watched in low light, to watch his lashes curtain his gaze as they found each other tugged into kiss after kiss...
But he wouldn't let himself get carried away so soon, and Mettaton hums, clearing his throat and maintaining a prim and proper (in his eyes) hold upon his husband, who he has wrapped in his arms in a crystalline flower garden. It was a romantic scene, he thought, befitting of two lovers. Mettaton pops one of his knees gently, watching Emet-Selch with just as much tenderness as he did heat, unabashed and unconcealed in his adoration for the smaller man.]
[It was a response that both clarified things and bewildered him more, the combination visible on his face, undisguised. His body, the one he'd always envisioned...? As though he would envision anything else (transformations notwithstanding, but those forms weren't anything he'd been going around in regularly, for a mercy; he hadn't become that shameless). As though he would be inhabiting anything else, picking up bodies as though they were no more than articles of clothing (something that he also possessed far too many of)... and yet he had, to the point that his own spouse had never seen him like this before.
Another judgement passed against himself; surely the more proverbial mask could come off inside the home, in the company of family? It wasn't as though he'd held himself back otherwise, which was its own judgement (It alarmed to remember himself so... lusty towards this man, so shamelessly desirous of him, actively anticipating testing the results of the puca's shapeshifting practice- while being thoroughly enamored of him even without it. Even if they were married, it spoke of experience that he couldn't explain.).
Having Mettaton's hand linger at his face wasn't the plan at all, but it was surprisingly difficult to nudge him aside when he was being smiled at like that. (And truthfully Emet-Selch was more conservative than many Amaurotines in these things... a few quick, affectionate touches were entirely acceptable between lovers.) Even if his look does flatten slightly at being described as a bashful bride; in retaliation, his touch over the robot's hand firms. (Retaliation, yes. A show of protest against being labeled bashful. He was disapproving, not embarrassed, he stubbornly decides.)
And then Mettaton kisses his cheek. Though he freezes at that too, it's for a briefer moment, for all that he's not yet getting used to the puca's forward (this counted as forward) behavior. As he could tell that this was restrained- and if he was being entirely fair, he would have to admit that it wasn't anything that would go particularly remarked on, even were they observed.
More distracting than the kiss, though, was the idol's claim.]
Our audience? [And for a moment Emet-Selch seems to take it literally, a kind of horror creeping into his expression... just what had he been up to, in the time before he could remember? He'd clearly known Mettaton from before... but apart from those unfortunate nights when the stars had been gone, and they'd all been a bit madder than usual (it was some consolation that he hadn't been in his right mind during that event, explaining a little bit about his behavior), they hadn't done anything too untoward in public. He holds on to that truth. Even so, the suggestion of privacy wasn't unwelcome, for multiple reasons; shaking off the latest bit of startle, he nods to him.] Yes, I... would prefer to--
[Emet-Selch understood what Mettaton was suggesting. It would be hard for him to claim that he wasn't intrigued himself, or uninterested. But that deep-set desperation for company, a recoiling from the fear of solitude- it was something beyond him, foreign, puzzling in itself (why had he felt like that, ceaselessly, endlessly?). Attachment (and if he were being honest with himself, attraction) to Mettaton aside, the need with which he usually regarded him wasn't there. Or rather, was more easily outweighed by something akin to embarrassment, especially while they were still in a public sphere.
It wasn't that he was shy exactly, but he was somewhat unaccustomed to romance. More than somewhat; when had he ever found the time for something like it? His duties weren't exactly trivial, and he took his role seriously, even the parts of it that annoyed. And to suddenly find himself thoroughly wedded, with an adoring lover looking at him with such a vivid, sultry gaze- it was a lot to take in. How did this even work? Even if the mage hadn't been completely free of intimate entanglements in his life, Mettaton wasn't anything like an Amaurotine in behavior or... any other aspect.
But more pressing- more important than his lack of familiarity with romantic endeavors- was an increasing sense of guilt. This wasn't a case of mistaken identity, as such... he was yet the same person underneath it all, he believed. But Mettaton thought him to be a specific version of himself, and when the puca looked at him so softly amidst that passion, an expression directed towards someone he wasn't- his hesitation on explaining could only fade.
Emet-Selch wasn't duplicitous by nature. Expression sobering, he gazes up at the taller man; gently he squeezes at his hand underneath his fingers, permitting it against his face (though it's a movement small, even halting, he presses his cheek into Mettaton's hand as well (how daring)).]
--There's a few things I feel I should explain. Things better said in private.
[Though Mettaton couldn't tell just what sorts of turmoil roils beneath the surface for Emet-Selch at the simple act of tolerating gestures of affection, he could see each moment that he pierced him, that he affected him more than enough to... convince him to let him press for more. That his smile should do the trick, or that even overwhelming him with the touch to his cheek at all should serve—though flattering, he doesn't take this as an indicator that anything's amiss, only that his lover is especially sensitive.
And why shouldn't he be, if he's in this new-old body? Mettaton feels touched that his husband should present to him the form he found most true to himself, assuming readily that he had the right of it and that this was the explanation for most of his curiosities. Though he smirks when he can tell that Emet-Selch is agitated by his comment, he proceeds with his kiss, and notes that he elicits a good freeze out of his lover at that, too.
It's delightful, he thinks. Almost a new dimension of enjoying one another... Which doesn't surprise him, even though it impresses him.
Though he's even more surprised at his obvious scandal at the thought of being in public. Oh, how the tables turn...
... And yet, it seemed slightly out of place in a way Mettaton couldn't explain, even if his husband was somehow presenting him with his native body out of trust, out of love, out of a desire to share this with him. That bit, he felt, continued to not make sense, given Emet-Selch's brazen attitudes from before, viewing all potential viewers as lesser and therefore with an opinion that mattered not at all.
But for the moment, the Puca lets it slide. Especially when he continues to gaze into the resplendent gold of Emet-Selch's eyes, that yellow hue that shimmers and lights so brightly that he wonders if they'd glow even in the dark... Mettaton sighs, smitten, the edges of his soul more than visible to him even while he's watching him on a more physical level.
Softly, of course, Mettaton has to regard him. Because he loves him terribly, and loves even more the thought of such vulnerability, such openness on his part, as he nods and agrees with the desire to be in private. If his husband was about to be a bit shy in exchange, he would indeed whisk him away and hide him from the world, enjoying him for himself.
Before he can blithely accept his proposal for privacy, though, Emet-Selch squeezes his hand with a particular gentleness; tips his head into his touch, so slightly, but with such halting intent, that it felt... new. Like the stumbling of a fawn, unaccustomed to its first steps. Daring indeed.
Mettaton's smile remains soft for him, but it sobers a touch, brow knitting so minutely that it could go overlooked easily. His thumb glides over his cheek again, ears swiveling somewhat, even as they lean.]
Oh...? You have my full attention. [Shortly, Mettaton nods.] But all right. Let's head back to our room, then.
[There were two ways of going about this. They could walk there, as Mettaton walked here... or his husband would simply teleport them both, as he's inclined to expect if he's not feeling up to the walk. Either choice was entirely possible, and in preparation for either, Mettaton's hand slips from Emet-Selch's cheek to brush its way down his shoulder, along the length of his arm, where he tangles his fingers with Emet-Selch's, four to five. Squeezing his hand, he moves his body back just enough that he's no longer flush to him, hands entwined and side-by-side.
With a smile, he prompts Emet-Selch with a readiness to walk—or, teleport. Just in case Emet-Selch's not up to the walk (which Mettaton is always up to).]
Shall we? I'm aching to know what it is you want to tell me.
[Because he's getting the creeping feeling that there is something to explain, the multitude of little things beginning to stand out as one big thing, an entire act of hesitancy, of unsureness, of surprise. Mettaton can't make it out, so he'll defer that explanation to Emet-Selch.]
[Where his other self might have answered that kiss with another, one closer (or meeting) Mettaton's lips, this Emet-Selch finds it adventurous enough to accept the touch of fingers to his face. Where he would have long since leaned, relaxed into Mettaton's frame with a hum of lazy contentment (and less-lazy interest, as bodily interest was something they both were easily enticed by, even when they were showing restraint), this version of himself was relieved when the puca finally stepped back from him, when he stopped admiring his features through touch.
(He would not fare so well were their souls to combine in godhood. Something so invasive and personal, and the form they would take....)
If it wasn't quite a polite distance or conduct, it felt a more appropriate compromise instead, to have his hand taken by Mettaton's (four into five... he remembers this detail the moment he experiences it, finding the way their fingers interlock strange and familiar both). Even if Mettaton had felt the need to brush all along his shoulder and arm in the process of getting there (a touch he'd merely accepted, wondering how long it would take himself to get used to this, or whether he could train Mettaton out of doing this).
Noting only the continued softness in the taller man's face (and feeling the echoes of his touch on his own), he nods once at the permission granted to go elsewhere- readily assuming it included the permission to use magic to get them inside.]
Just a moment, then. You're used to moving around like this, aren't you?
[As Emet-Selch does, indeed, choose to teleport them. Not because he wasn't up for the walk, but- well, he remained the sort of person to use magic to carry himself a few feet over rather than make the arduous journey himself (in his disorientation immediately after appearing here, he had walked part of the way back down from that keep while he thought things over... before getting lost in a bit of the maze-like portions and teleporting himself the rest of the way out). And it would avoid some public handholding, which- even if this wasn't Amaurot, and that no one from Amaurot would see him doing- remained something he was relieved to escape.
More importantly, it gave him less opportunity to put off what he suspected would be a somewhat awkward conversation.
Darkness briefly surrounds them (if with an edge of blue to it), obscuring the view of flowers and trees, snow and hill- to reveal moments later the room they'd been sharing these past days. Practically the size of the apartment they'd been sharing these past months, it was noticeably more finely equipped, with full sets of clearly-expensive furniture (With frames or details all made out of that plentiful everfrost, as if anyone would want a bed with a core of ice. Or risk frostbite in brushing against the decor. A material plentiful and novel only to tourists, presented as something luxurious and valuable- both Emet-Selchs end up viewing it with a touch of cynicism (this one intrinsically knew, though, that he was at no risk of even noticing any chill).).
Looking around as if to orient himself, he lets out a breath that was relieved and resigned both. Glancing sideways at Mettaton before deliberately looking away, he slowly extricates his hand from his, trying not to predict the sort of reaction he might receive from this confession.]
How to put this....
[Finding a couch to settle himself into, dark robes moving with him, he doesn't relax, no matter the security that being in private brought. Whether Mettaton joins him or remains standing, he forces himself to look to his face again, his own expression approaching resolute.
Mettaton's coat, his heels (how inappropriate for this weather, some distant part of him thinks; they did look good on him, another part also recognizes), his form as a whole and the rabbit features that now adorned it- he takes all of it in. Marvels again at how familiar he seemed, while being simultaneously new. A dear friend and a complete stranger....
There was nothing for it but to speak.]
I'm not the same man who ascended that castle. Who arrived on this star knowing you from some time before this. [Another frown; he resists the impulse to look aside, though his voice lowers a degree.] --Neither of us took this action deliberately. And yet I find myself here in my- his stead.
[Of course Mettaton notices this lack of affection, in a very distant way... They were all things he'd have to take note of at a later time and moment, when all of the dots connected to create a clearer picture. Instead of being swayed by his touch and influenced by his weight, instead of pushing into his pull, instead of returning kiss after kiss in the middle of an idyllic patch of gleaming flowers, Emet-Selch merely presses into his touch.
And that's... it.
For the moment, he chocks it up to Emet-Selch being determined about whatever it is he has to tell him. So he brushes it off, though feels a touch bereft of the usual warmth and affection his lover usually gives. It's another sign that he clutches onto that something's not quite right, in any case, and he finds himself a bit off-kilter.
Enough so that when Emet-Selch asks if he's used to moving around like this, Mettaton lags behind, staring at him closely without much hearing going on. He analyzes the look on Emet-Selch's face, the clinical sort of formality in his manner, and finds himself a bit... hurt by it all.
He tries to brush that away. If it ever should resurface, it would be in petulant, playful pouty-ness... he hopes. (Which would mean it would be just teasing, asking for more of his touch, for more kisses, for more contact... and that Emet-Selch would be receptive to it, in the end.)
While his thoughts ride roller coasters, his ears make known his feelings clearly. They swivel, facing each side of his head; they droop, they fold back. One of them rises curiously, before each of them do, their backs facing Emet-Selch. But he doesn't need ears to express his emotions when he has a face to do that for him, as his eye softens, his brow knits, his smile fades slightly, only to rise again. Though soft, his gaze is colored that bit more by concern.
Still, he remains peppy at first, nodding just in time for Emet-Selch to teleport them away.
In moments they arrive in the privacy of their suite. It's... something, according to Mettaton's tastes, as it didn't quite measure up to his idea of true luxury. But there were certain aspects that were nicer than their apartment, while other parts remained lacking. (And Emet-Selch had made it clear that parts of the room were frigid, even when Mettaton couldn't tell. Employing his heating feature didn't seem to melt anything in the room, anyway...)
Reflecting on the room for those seconds, he catches the brightness of Emet-Selch's golden gaze, and feels totally caught by it—only for the man to look away, and to take his hand with it. Mettaton's lips part in protest, his ears flattening.
This is the moment he realizes something's truly amiss, and not in any way he could pout cutely at to appeal for love.
Even so, there's a story here, and Mettaton's determined to see it to its conclusion. As the Amaurotine sets himself down, a fluid motion of inky robes cloaking a body Mettaton wanted to know so intimately, the robot remains standing, stuck to his spot. But he doesn't break eye contact, especially when his husband(?) catches his gaze with his own, captivating him totally.
His eyes are simply stunning, he thought. Mettaton swallows, tied up in a mess of love and ache for him; of hurt impending, as he intuitively knew something wasn't right with Emet-Selch.]
.....
[There really isn't anything that could be done to prepare Mettaton for the news Emet-Selch has to break. His shock is made of a wide eye and lips parted, shoulders dropping degree after degree, as though his entire posture deigned to wither under the grave news. Mettaton searches Emet-Selch's face for the... joke, for the contradiction, for any sign that he's actually just dreaming and he's currently asleep. It can be hard to tell the difference between dream and reality, sometimes, Mettaton thought.
The air is just as chilly as the everfrost implies, their room themed in a crystalline blue with deeper navys and whites. No, the room itself was heated... but the air between them felt stagnate. Mettaton isn't even sure he's standing on his own two feet anymore, a sort of stage fright he's known only times before. He feels caught in headlights—caught before the luminous gold of his lover's eyes, as he watches him carefully, softly...
but he sees now, the hesitance. The guilt. The strange reception of him at all... Suddenly, though, Mettaton boils over with protest. He stomps his feet upon the ground and balls up his fists, leaning forward with urgency writ upon his expression.]
Wait-! If you're not... the same Hades who married me, how do you know who I am?!
[As if this is the gotcha that proves that Emet-Selch is... lying. As if he'd lie about something like this. Irrational though the protest is, Mettaton is not entirely rational even at his best, not always. For the moment, he reacts on reflex, and that reflex is to deny that the man he loves is, by virtue of this one standing before him... not here?
Mettaton quickly has more questions. "What are you saying?" is the dominant one of them all. Too many questions. His ears don't droop even once, standing stark upright, backs together and fully alert.]
If... Where else would he be? He is you. [A pause, as Mettaton processes. His voice somehow goes a touch quieter, more brittle, though it remains just as smooth.] You do know me... don't you?
[He hadn't forgotten him. He recognized him on sight. One of Mettaton's ears lean for Emet-Selch, still trying to figure out what this man was saying to him. What he was doing, in denying that he was the same Emet-Selch he knew. (He notices the lack of a ring on his finger. He decides... to not analyze it too hard right this second.) So then what was the purpose in telling him this?
(Where did Emet-Selch go? He scarcely wants to consider yet that he was somehow not... here.)]
[Had the rabbit features been a later addition to this robotic familiar, to aid in communication? Machines weren't exactly known for their expressiveness... but why would someone try to alter their creation mid-way like this, rather than start over with a refined design? But it's a thought Emet-Selch dismisses a moment later; even without the ears twisting about, flattening and rising, expressing their hurt, their confusion- Mettaton's face was more than enough to convey how he felt.
Trusting as he believed the robot was, he knew Mettaton wasn't blind. He wasn't being received in the way he was accustomed, with shameless, casual affection- and while Emet-Selch didn't see anything wrong with his own behavior now (of course he would be more formal in public, even when there was no one else around), he knew it was different. Reserved, when Mettaton was used to being granted the opposite, from him; those threads of guilt only grow more numerous at the sight, knowing that he was hurt, and only bound to become moreso.
But soon enough they were away; there was no reassurance he could provide, regardless.
Which didn't make it any easier to watch, as he begins to offer his explanation, as Mettaton reacts to it. The increasing awareness that something was truly wrong, the visible shock, passing into a verbal denial, the drive to refute him, to catch him out as merely pretending as some sort of cruel game (even as they both knew that he wouldn't do something like that).
Emet-Selch weathers it, more uncomfortable than impassive, remaining silent as the puca stamps his foot, as he works through his initial protests, settling on questions in a voice that struck him as fragile, no matter how smooth Mettaton could make it. Though the Amaurotine wasn't the sort of person who ever found it easy to provide comfort, that didn't mean he was without the inclination. Especially so now, when this was- in some impossible sense- someone that he cared for. Sympathy welled up, unbidden, useless; his own fingers tense, digging into his palms.]
I do know you. [He echoes, quietly, evenly.] 'Twould be easier if I didn't... and easier yet more complicated still had I remembered it all.
[Who would be the 'real' Emet-Selch in that situation? Another self with precisely the same feelings- were the individuals then replaceable? Or did only the original matter, with the second discardable, no matter how identical his love? A bit of philosophy he pushes aside, irrelevant. He didn't have those memories.]
Everything that I've done here, I know. Our reacquaintance, our... time together when the stars were lost. [Slightly more formal of a tone there, and the briefest glance aside; even recalling it was a point of mild embarrassment. But he presses on, the feeling passing for something softer.] Our binding, in a way that surpassed legality.
[Was their marriage so profound that it encompassed alternate versions of those originally taking part? It was something he couldn't entirely dismiss, not when he remembered it with such unfortunate clarity.
Looking down, partially to collect his words (partially to avoid looking at Mettaton's distress), he forces himself to unclench his hands, though he's little more at ease in the end.]
I know how he felt. How I felt... even if I lack something of the context.
[Which made the feelings not quite the same at all- but they weren't nothing, either.]
[Searching Emet-Selch's face as he responds and reacts, Mettaton can see easily the polite distance reserved between them that felt fundamentally wrong. That felt like a fissure between their feet that hadn't been there... but just as quickly, the robot knows he can reach him anyway. The more he trusts that he's telling the truth, the more he can see who this man is.
Which is... not the man he met in Aefenglom, nor the man he'd come to learn. The lack of such tiredness under his eyes and his easier gait were two things he'd noticed off the bat, and should've been ready indicators that something was wrong. (Hadn't he used the incorrectness of his posture against him before? And now look at him. Mettaton tilts his head just a bit, continuing to scrutinize the man who sits before him.)
But instead of being able to read that Emet-Selch struggled with himself to comfort Mettaton, he pines for his touch, unable to understand why he'd deny him this simple pleasure when he was upset. Irate and hurt, his ear flicks as he tries to piece together this whole situation into something that makes sense to him.
He knows him, but only what experiences they've had here in Nippon... So he's his husband after all, Mettaton realizes, and it's the first bit of news that gets his ear to perk up even in the slightest. They did marry here; Emet-Selch knew this. Hope fills him.
Finally, he watches Emet-Selch avert his gaze. Hears him admit to feelings, to love. To the softness he could see in his gaze and the emotion behind it, a love that transcended understanding. Hollow where memories once were, but addled by the feeling all the same. It was something; not even for a second does Mettaton think otherwise.
And he softens again, in a direction that still aches. He can't understand what's going on, nor can he process it. Only by taking it moments at a time could Mettaton digest any of this, as he wanders on soft steps to Emet-Selch's side, where he eases himself down. Hand upon the cushion of the couch and knees together, his seating is graceful, legs poised and weight set gently, Mettaton is both close, but just enough distance away, as though respecting Emet-Selch's space despite his hurt.
No matter where Emet-Selch looks in the room, Mettaton's gaze is stuck to him. He continues to ache for touch, for some reassurance, and decides to sidle himself closer to the man he loves—and he knew still that Emet-Selch felt something for him, then. That he understood the gravity of their feelings. He reaches for those unclenched hands with his own and holds them, folding his fingers around the mage's—taking special notice of the lack of a ring.
Of course there was no ring. It still hurts to notice. His eye closes, grounding himself in... this, where it hurt. It hurt... a lot. He shudders slightly, squeezing Emet-Selch's hands.]
I... I see. So you know how we feel.
[A statement not intended to exclude the man as he is now, either, as Emet-Selch states he's privy to his own feelings. Mettaton's eye opens a crack, and he gazes down at their hands. Emet-Selch knows him, remembers him, and knows there's more untouched... What happened to make him like this?
Mettaton lifts his gaze, doing a poor job at piecing himself together for presentation's sake—but, hell, this is supposed to be his own husband. If he can't be vulnerable in front of him, then with who? He mouths syllables, searching for words.]
Then...
[...Once upon a time, they'd sworn to each other that should they forget, they would wrangle each other in once more. Mettaton feels a creeping dread at the thought of Emet-Selch having somehow been robbed of his memory, time made to revert itself for some cruel reason... But he holds to this, turning it over in his mind.]
... Tell me more. About you. About... the Hades you are, who can't remember our years in Aefenglom.
[His voice is still brittle, his heart aching. It aches, but not so brutally, not so blindingly that he can't think. His husband sits before him... and it's not at all cruel, to be in his forgetful company, Mettaton thought. He still adores him, and sees that same tenderness, though reserved, in Emet-Selch's manner. He wanted to know more of him; he loves him nonetheless.]
[Had he ever ached like this before? Emet-Selch couldn't recall anything like it, this sting of melancholy (a lot of his memories from this place were melancholic, as though it were a mood pervasive, even with the addition of a husband he adored). But then, he'd never been in love quite like this before- and circumstances made it less of a straightforward thing than it might otherwise be.
As guilt remained, the Amaurotine feeling uncomfortably something like a voyeur to his own memories, something so personal that was both his and was not. More than embarrassing, it felt wrong to intrude... and yet, who else had any right to these memories other than him? They were his; he had a responsibility to them, and especially to the man who featured so heavily in them.
Gracefully, the robot sits himself down at a polite distance; caught up in watching him again, (how many times had he admired the precision of his lover's movements?) Emet-Selch is conscious of the strange familiarity of it, every movement something he'd observed before. But even he could tell it felt wrong though, for Mettaton to take a respectful place from him, rather than settling close without any thought required. Either Mettaton would artfully splay himself across his body in an unmistakable demand for attention, or he would curl into the robot's body himself (in its way, also a demand for attention).
It was a relief then, when Mettaton sidled that bit closer, as though it were some small step in healing this rift which had suddenly appeared between them. Hands taken up by the puca's, he squeezes back at them encouragingly- reassuringly? He knew his husband desired contact- that he was a very physical sort. (He still second-guesses himself otherwise. Should he... lean into him? Try to move closer himself?? They were married; it would hardly be inappropriate. And he knew Mettaton was hurting.
Carefully, he shifts himself a little closer too, so that they were just brushing against one another.)
They both stare at their hands, at what was missing and what was not. And he nods at Mettaton's statement, at what it encompassed. He knew how all of them felt, from the version of himself he'd unintentionally replaced, to the puca who sat next to him now. To... himself, made to inherit those feelings. Like it or not, he was in love with him.
How complicated. Unconsciously, he strokes a little at Mettaton's fingers, as he lifts his head, sensing the other man's gaze on his face. Seeing the look there only deepened the ache he was already feeling, but he endures it. There was nothing for it but to endure it.]
Years? [It's a statement that has him wince slightly, then sigh. He'd been gallivanting around that long with this Mettaton; he was missing that many experiences with him. But it did follow with the impression he'd gotten from his new memories. (A whole life, apart from that...?)] But yes- of course.
[Where to start though...? Frowning a little more, it's an expression thoughtful. Though when it comes to describing who he was, it was natural that the first thing that comes to mind is his work.]
You know my role as Emet-Selch. I must've told you of my place on the Convocation.
[Surely that much hasn't changed- and when he thought about it, he had been wielding his title as his name in this place, which was reasonable enough. (Just as reasonable as Mettaton calling him Hades; in private especially, what else would his very husband call him?)
And though he couldn't recall ever speaking of the Convocation to Mettaton, that, in its way, only followed. The sort of topic that would come up early in their relationship, as they first learned about one another; regularly mentioning that yes, it continued to exist- why would that ever occur? Not that it described anything of who he was- beyond a certain dedication, perhaps.]
I've never been beyond the bounds of Etheirys before. [A small musing; separate from all else, it was an interesting, if unexpected opportunity.] Nor has anyone else, I imagine. My responsibilities rarely take me far from Amaurot, for that matter- beyond the occasional summons from Azem, when he's found himself in some particular trouble.
[All names and concepts that he assumes would be familiar to Mettaton, so he doesn't stop to explain them.]
And here I learn I've been to yet another star. Azem will be beside himself, hearing of the adventure he's missed out on. [A point of light amusement; a moment later his expression turns into something more pained.] Not that I anticipate having to explain all of this.
[Azem would be bad enough, though distractable with descriptions of this other world. Hythlodaeus, given any details about his love life... he shuddered to think about it. The endless, relentless teasing.
Exhaling another breath, he shakes his head to try and clear it of that imagined, impending horror.]
--But these are all things I've likely told you all before. Mettaton- tell me of this Aefenglom. Of how we became involved- of who you are, this man that I've apparently married twice over.
[He did recall that detail, as they'd discussed it on this star. He was actually married; it was still a truth to be reeling from.]
[It's difficult to get a clear read on a man who is supposed to be much the same as the one he married, when he flinches at the thought of years transpiring. Mettaton's first thought is that Emet-Selch was upset by the notion of losing years of memory... Which makes sense, to him. But there were other little things that feel so fresh, new, unique.
For example, Emet-Selch's hesitance to close distance between them is so very strange, he notes. It hurts, but he doesn't feel like it's revulsion that fuels Emet-Selch's manner... And if he knew anything about him, Emet-Selch had rarely been very considerate of his body, his proximity, his 'affection.' Now, there was a difference, he knew, in Emet-Selch simply interacting in kind and actually expressing real affect. This felt... genuine, in a way that toddled on unsteady feet. As though Emet-Selch hadn't the haziest notion... what to do with him.
Which amuses Mettaton, even where his heart aches for the sort of full-force embrace Emet-Selch could've given him in these moments. He imagines the man himself would have held him tight and finds himself wincing in kind, longing for that sort of touch... but he steels himself still, focusing on the freshly-arrived Emet-Selch who knew not at all how to navigate affection, much less with someone who'd already undressed him, fucked him, dominated him, fused with him, and claimed him as his husband and partner.
As Mettaton decides then that Emet-Selch's unsureness must be that this arrival of himself hasn't figured out how to navigate such things—which is, in itself, a remarkable thought that felt too bizarre to be true. An Emet-Selch who had no experience going through the motions of a good husband, who knew not how to kiss or hug or what sorts of touches to perform with someone he loves?
Mettaton stares at him intently, attentively, as Emet-Selch describes his history. His role with the Convocation, to which he nods shortly, distractedly. Why, if Emet-Selch is as unfamiliar with affection as he seems...
Just how inexperienced is he?! Mettaton blinks at him, contemplating the term Etheirys (had he heard it before? he can't remember too clearly, but he assumes it's synonymous with his star), soaking in the notion that Emet-Selch remains mostly in Amaurot... unless Azem beckons. A mention that pulls a smile of recognition out of him, and one that blooms into something more, excited.]
Wait...! Hades—you were in Amaurot before coming here?!
[His grip tightens excitedly, eagerly, as he leans forward for him, eye bright. With that revelation, he has to know—and it takes precedence over talking about Mettaton, which is a rarity.
Mettaton returns Emet-Selch's attempts to sidle closer with another sidle of his own, scooching nearer without shame. When he's this close to a revelation, he can temporarily abandon the pain and ache of 'losing' something, excited for this version of Emet-Selch who has lived so little in the ways of his later suffering, who yet resides in a world he deeply cherishes. Surrounded by his friends, surely, with Azem and Hythlodaeus his similarly cherished company. ...None of this has anything to do with Mettaton in his life, but he still felt excited for Emet-Selch, knowing the man had loved his world, his people, and his friends.
It's his husband, but under totally different circumstances... Mettaton cocks his head, curious.]
How many times have you married before me? Could it be...? Am I your first?
[He hopes so. God, he hopes so. Mettaton's tail flicks, knowing well that Emet-Selch surely wants to know more about them—but he didn't quite expect... this. The lack of years, the lack of lives lived, the fact that this very same man hadn't endured thousands upon thousands of years—it was a shock to consider.]
[Had this relationship proceeded at something of a normal pace (which at the very least required those years Mettaton mentioned... as Emet-Selch readily assumes that it took that long before they became particularly intimate) he thought he would be far more at ease with... this. With all of this, affections and invasions that would come about naturally over time, with ever increasing ease as familiarity built. As a history was made.
But now he was thrown into the deepest end of conjugal harmony when he was only prepared for the shallows- and with a partner who already knew all the motions.
(The idea of having the experience enough to either pretend, to find the motions themselves familiar enough to not have to think to perform them- neither occurs to him as something plausible. The reason his other self had been so at ease with Mettaton was surely accounted for in those missing years of development.)
It was all a bit much if he allowed himself to think about it (especially when it came to how... much Mettaton must have seen of him, how much he must have seen of Mettaton; his imagination fortunately(?) couldn't begin to encompass everything they'd done in Aefenglom) but he wasn't unwilling to learn. If he was married, it was clearly for love (what other reasons were there?), it was something that he still felt- and if it took work to become the husband he was meant to be, he was nothing if not dedicated. He would support this robot he was suddenly terribly enamored of.
He still mentally stuttered when he dwelled too long on how close they were.]
Where else would I--
[Of course there were other places he might be on their star, one of those rare occasions he mentioned- but Amaurot was his home, where he spent the majority of his days. There was nothing remarkable about his being there.
But it's a thought and response that's cut off as Mettaton scoots that much nearer, invades his personal space that bit more- and while it's not uncomfortable (in a way he was still getting used to; the memories he did have accounted for that... but it was nice), he hesitates too, in knowing how to return it. How to respond, beyond knowing that he wanted to; his own grip on their hands tightens.
And where Mettaton had ignored his own questions, he doesn't try to persist- too surprised himself at the direction (and amount) of the puca's shock and excitement. It was a curiosity he had no reason not to indulge; they had as good as eternity to learn about each other (concepts like 'lifespans' applied to things like animals, after all) (that this magic bringing him here was at all finite is something he's unaware of).
But this particular question though, puzzles him, his brow furrowing as he wondered if he was misunderstanding something. When would he have been married before (with the disturbing implication that there had been several times, considering Mettaton's phrasing)? What... had his other self been up to??]
You would be the first. Nor have I known anyone I would even consider broaching the subject with. Had I mentioned a partner before you?
[He supposed that wasn't impossible (no more impossible than this particular robot marriage). If his prior spouse had chosen to return to the star before he felt his own time was through... it would surprise him, and he could only imagine the grief of it. But he would understand too, he thought- and would know that they would see each other again, in some other life.
And to find another love after that... again, it was possible. He had the proof of his feelings sitting next to him.
That there could've been more than this... now that didn't make any sense. He wasn't the type to fall in love that easily (and why else would he get married?).]
[(Oh, the surprise he'd be in for when Mettaton told him the true nature of their fall into intimacy, and their backwards approach to familiarizing with one another...)
For now, Mettaton remains transfixed not on their history together as a wedded couple, but upon Emet-Selch's present circumstance. In favor of inquiring further into the man who sits beside him now, Mettaton shoves aside his relationship with him in Aefenglom and addressing or describing it, as he watches Emet-Selch hesitate at their nearness (not with any discontent, he feels; it's a hunch he has that comes from being familiar with Emet-Selch, the way he grips harder onto his hand for lack of anything else to do), and try his best to keep up with Mettaton.
Mettaton could smile at that, too, woozy that his husband remains the dedicated, supportive. He's trying, and Mettaton can feel that in the touch of their hands, in the tension in the air between them. Though uncertain, Emet-Selch is smitten with him, just as fiercely as he is with Emet-Selch.
There'd be a chance for Mettaton to describe the trajectory of their relationship from start to finish. But for now, this was a good place to start: a position of discovery for them both. When Mettaton thinks about it... it had ever been difficult to discuss Emet-Selch's life on Etheirys so many years ago, especially when it often made Emet-Selch upset. He had a hunch that his reluctance to show him this body had just as much to do with the difficulty he had in talking about how things used to be, while still wanting to indulge in something that swathed him in comfort. Mettaton doesn't view this as a chance to go around Emet-Selch's comfort, so much as an opportunity to learn about the man he loves with even greater depth and intensity.
He unites their hands, clasping both of his own around Emet-Selch's, which are cupped between his. There, he squeezes; he smiles, nodding as a preliminary answer.]
Yes. Yes, you were married before me... And what a record you have of it, my dear. What a Casanova you are... Siiiigh. [(He says 'sigh.') MTT flashes a smile, playful mischievousness a glint in his eye.] Why, I don't think you ever gave me a precise figure of the times you've said 'I do!' But when I joked that you've been married thousands of times, you didn't protest.....
[Terrible. He waggles his eyebrow with a low hum, a teasing remark to get a rise out of this inexperienced Emet-Selch. MTT remembered how Mikasa his friend, whose name he can't remember, reacted to the prospect of the Witch having been married before. Scandalized, she was concerned over what that meant for Mettaton! Even Mettaton felt quite possessive of Emet-Selch and his history of marriage, priding himself on having been the one and only to truly arrest him. That made the rest of them far, far less important.
He leaves enough of a pause for Emet-Selch to react, but swiftly closes his eye, shaking his head slightly.]
... It's complicated, darling. You... had been married before, yes. But you told me it was never for love's sake, like it is with me.
[And it was quite the intimidating ordeal to explain to a younger (?), less experienced version of his husband all of the turmoil and turbulence he was (??) to go through, in the future (???). A pang of sadness etches itself at the corner of Mettaton's eye, wondering if this version of his husband was slated to endure hardships unprecedented.
He remembers a promise he'd made to Emet-Selch to use his powers to spare his world its downfall. That there was a terrible noise, undiagnosed. To meet the man who lived in that world, to see him so fresh... It's something of a reminder of his lover's heart, who he longed to protect. Every part of Emet-Selch was worth defending, Mettaton thought. He closes distance between their bodies, nudging into Emet-Selch's smaller frame with his hip, sitting flush at his side.]
It would be easier to recount how we grew close, you and I... if you truly don't remember. Though I'm sure you recall, at least, how our first meeting here went.
[That is... some of Mettaton's own troubles. Some of what brought them together even in Aefenglom, though it served to set distance between them here, at first.]
[That he'd never told Mettaton much about his life on Etheirys would trouble Emet-Selch as much as it would surprise him. The idea that memories could be too painful to readily share with others- he would understand it in hypotheticals, but be taken back by it nonetheless. While it was true that some things were especially personal, and he'd never volunteer any of his youthful follies to anyone- that was different from an entire life being something to avoid recounting beyond the confines of his own mind. Yet Mettaton was clearly someone he trusted... if he couldn't share it with him, then who was there? (No one.)
Oblivious to that and especially to their historical romantic trajectory (and spared the scandal of realizing how... easy he had been, sleeping around with someone he barely knew), he does find their current closeness pleasant. Even if it wasn't what it had been, it was more than he was used to- but like this, it wasn't overwhelming either. To sit here like this with their hands touching, in close company.... (Though that ache remained, as he imagined it would- that too was made more bearable like this.)
That Mettaton had been expecting a reaction from him at the news of his marital past, Emet-Selch can tell, but remained helpless to not provide it. His hands in Mettaton's grasp twitch. His lips part as though to refute, or ask for clarification, or to say something at all, but no sound emerges. The furrow of his brow deepening as the seconds pass, as it begins to sink in (sparing a moment's disbelief at the robot saying 'sigh'... what an obnoxious man he was in love with), he clears his throat.]
Thousands.
[He repeats, while yet taking in Mettaton's face, searching for signs of it being a joke amidst the amusement. For the playful puca to take it back, and reveal the real number (of less than two). And while Mettaton teasing this other him without receiving any comeback wasn't proof of anything, when the robot's humor transitions into something more sober, there was the uncomfortable suggestion that he was telling the truth.
There was still the possibility that he was mistaken, but that would be an odd thing to be wrong about, to have never been clarified. And Emet-Selch understood even less why he would ever pretend to have married so prolifically.
(He'd gotten the impression that his other self was older than him, to some degree. That would explain the fatigue, he supposed, the excessive naps (not that he didn't enjoy a good nap, nor was he particularly spritely even on his best days- but whatever was plaguing this other him was on an entirely different level of non-energy). Why he'd allowed himself to become so worn down without returning to the star, he couldn't begin to guess. Something important must have come up.)
From horrified disbelief, his own expression also settles into something else, something more troubled. Being told that it hadn't been for love before Mettaton- didn't make things any better. Gaze remaining on the robot's face even with his eye closed, the Amaurotine struggles to make sense of his alternate self's actions. Who or what had he been marrying, and why?]
Complicated. [Another echoing, as though it would help him to absorb this.] I suspect complicated doesn't even begin to describe it.
[How much did Mettaton know? But he hesitates in asking, as though dreading what further revelations might arrive, already disturbed at this initial impression of his other life. The hint of sadness that he catches in the puca's expression further dampens any enthusiasm when it came to learning more.
So when Mettaton brings up a meeting that he could recall, Emet-Selch focuses his attention on that instead. (Attention too, on the further closeness on Mettaton's part. One that he returns after a pause, leaning a little against him as he thinks.) Their 'first' meeting... he nods at it, glancing away as he drudges through those particular new memories. They had both only just arrived on this star. He'd... needed to find a body for some reason, and Mettaton had found him just after he had.
They had been strangers, and yet not, surprised at a form of familiarity neither of them could voice. They'd kept each other's company for a brief time, the robot undaunted by his disaffected griping, as though they'd done it all before. And they had... revealed things about themselves that weren't the sort of topics one would bring up with a complete stranger.
(He'd mentioned being dead, he suddenly remembers, blinking in distraction at it. It still didn't explain very much on reflection, though, beyond being surprised at his choice in wording. Dead. And why had he been lingering in the Underworld rather than move on? How had he lost his 'original body'??)
(That Mettaton was a ghost inhabiting a robot... doesn't yet dissuade Emet-Selch's view of the other man being some manner of familiar. It would explain why he had a soul, if anything. That someone's creation- either by design or by the ghost sneaking in- had been given true life by the addition of a spirit... still sounded like a familiar to him.)]
We didn't remember each other at first... yet recognized one another still. You were pushy, a bother. The kind of companion I always find myself plagued with. [Looking back to Mettaton, it's with the echo of a flat expression, as if blaming him for this.] I assumed any familiarity I felt was simply that- an old dynamic, repeated.
[They'd eventually found themselves before some sort of... perverse entertainment. Which he'd somehow understood what was, had been able to view with complete indifference, rather than sharing in Mettaton's shock and startle (he'd only been amused at his companion's reaction, having expected it). Mettaton had been right to be scandalized; there were certainly no shops like that in Amaurot (they weren't even wearing masks.....).
Belatedly scandalized in his own stead, it dissipates as he recalls how they'd parted that day. How annoyed he'd become, blaming those suggestions of familiarity between them on outside magicks influencing his mind, this foreign kizuna. He'd rejected it, harshly.]
--I wasn't exactly kind to you, was I.
[Expressing his displeasure with Mettaton's behavior was one thing (an expected, natural thing). But blackmailing him about being a ghost was disproportionately cruel. Blackmailing anyone was- he didn't understand how it had even occurred to him as an option, much less one he was willing to take.
...There was one consolation though, which he voices after a pause.]
If it helps, I never intended to tell anyone about you. Even if I didn't understand why... [A small shake of his head.] The idea itself repulsed me.
[Mettaton never thought that Emet-Selch was incapable of sharing his past. But he was patient when it mattered, and always figured his lover would be ready when he was ready. ...Which, he assumed, would happen with time. He believed more than assumption, actually. He knew it had the potential to hurt; he knew Emet-Selch would endure it anyway when it mattered.
And Emet-Selch mattered a lot to Mettaton. He respects him more than anyone else he knew, and trusted him as much as one could trust. With time, the Ascian would surely shine light on more personal aspects of his world that went beyond the tragedy of its ending... Which Mettaton had already long since realized was what he was most familiar with of all. But since it was a world that matters to Emet-Selch, it matters to him, blindly and beyond a doubt.
Already, he could pick out differences between Emet-Selch as he is right now, and the one he'd married. This one was far more expressive, transparent in his surprise and disturb—traits he assumes come from the lack of experience he might have to face as he weathered year upon year. Mettaton watches his face morph from doubt to a muted horror, upset pinching his brow at the notion of his surplus of meaningless marriages.
And he assumes his trend of thought explored the edges of whatever tragedy must've befallen him to make him endure it all. Mettaton squeezes Emet-Selch's hand at his musing of the Ascian's complicated life, to which Mettaton nods. It was very complicated, and his ears flatten at the thought that this one might have to face the same fate.
But perhaps he could be prepared for some measure of it by exploring his own memory, as Emet-Selch begins to recall for him their meeting in Nippon. Seated on a train that jostled them gently, they chatted about their bodies and souls; they found ease in their company, and a spark of warmth between their fingers. Mettaton averts his gaze to watch their hands again, recalling their discussion of incorporeality—from those who were dead, and those who had never been 'alive' to begin with.
And of course, Emet-Selch had ended up blackmailing him with his openness. Mettaton hadn't expected someone to treat him so poorly—especially after divulging something so personal. But it made an impression that still lingers, as though expecting that most people would do this to him from now on—even if that person was his very own husband. It feels like the normal thing a person might do now, to the Mettaton who lives in Nippon.
But as soon as Emet-Selch clarifies his heart, ears that had gradually begun to fall stand taller again, surprise widening his golden eye. And softness takes their edges, as Mettaton lifts one of his hands to gently caress Emet-Selch's cheek, brushing aside a lock of hair.]
Oh, I know. I know now, anyway. [He knew Emet-Selch too well to not look back on the situation and see his regret, his defense, his hackles raised toward unwelcome (yet coveted) company. To defend himself from that which could hurt—from that which he could lose and be disturbed by, when he was otherwise so set in his ways. Mettaton nods reassuringly, a small smile gently curving his lips.] At the time, I believed you meant it. What a fool I was, I thought... But I still believed you and I had something special. Despite everything, I still felt I should trust you... even though it hurt. I forgive you!
[With all of his heart he believed that. He squeezes Emet-Selch's hand, recalling the spike of fear he felt in just thinking about the imposing Emet-Selch he'd met to start... and how he still wanted to cross paths with him nonetheless. But it provided some helpful insight into the man's defensive nature, especially in retrospect. He hurt, a lot—and it helped Mettaton understand even better why the Ascian might guard himself even from his husband.
Mettaton meets Emet-Selch's eyes again with a brimming smile.]
I also felt our dynamic familiar, you know. We both bonded over that... That we're often in similar company. Both here, and in Aefenglom. Face it! You just get along with people like me, Hades.
[First, Mettaton punctuates that by leaning into kiss him so chastely upon the cheek that it's cute more than anything, as though introducing Emet-Selch to the vast seas of affectionate gestures. When he pulls back, he winks playfully. It's hard to tell he winked, but Mettaton sort of... produces a little sparkle at the side of his head to express that emotion more clearly, sticking out the tip of his tongue.]
[(Though it galled him somewhat to have to use his own behavior as evidence... Emet-Selch did have to consider that his (threat of) willingness to use private information against someone might not be a flaw uniquely his. That the people on other stars might not follow the rules he was used to, to pair with their alarmingly expressed individuality.
It was something to keep in mind (Not that he was sure what to look for... and he didn't want to think that actual malice could be at all commonplace. Even in his own situation, he hadn't actually intended on making good on his threat, cruel as it was to suggest it in the first place.).)
While he refused to feel guilt for something he hadn't (sort of) done, it was uncomfortable all the same to see that he had that potential for it. To think on how he'd become that way... but it reassured to hear that Mettaton had realized the truth, even if not immediately. Where rabbit ears perk up, his own manner relaxes a degree.
Mettaton's touch helped too- though he still starts very slightly at it, of the softness of fingers brushing back his hair, to graze his cheek. But he nudges into it a moment later, and if it took deliberation to do so rather than instinct, it's an acceptance of the touch all the same. Of the intimacy it implied to permit it. He still sighs, more softly, voice turning into a slight grumble.]
Even if I'm not the one who should be apologizing for it... [His other self had rudely absconded, dumping the responsibility of it all on him.] I'm sorry you had to believe it in the first place. Even if you realized better... that your trust hadn't been entirely misplaced.
[Though it hadn't been the most optimistic of reunions, Mettaton had been right about there being something there, no matter how much he'd sought to deny or ignore it. Softening a little more at the squeeze to his hand, at the love and trust he could practically feel coming from the other man, it was easier for him to see, at times, at how he could've fallen for him.
Even when (especially when) the puca asserts that they were both drawn to their inverse in company- that he got along with people like him. (It was the awful, terrible truth.)
All immediate protest is delayed when Mettaton leans in to kiss his cheek. He recovers more quickly this time though, requiring only a few moments before fixing Mettaton with a disapproving look, as though he weren't moved at all by expressions cute or gestures affectionate (it wasn't at all directed at the kiss though).]
By 'get along', you mean 'tormented by.' As your kind is wont to do with those of sense.
[And he was doomed to be drawn in, again and again. To one opportunity after another, showing him things he never would've seen otherwise; introducing him to people he never would've met otherwise. (He enjoyed it.)]
Is that how we came to know one another in Aefenglom? A relentless battering of my defenses until I gave in and accepted your presence?
[They hadn't (he assumes) old memories to drive them together that time. At some point they had met for the first.
But he'd begun recalling memories of this other world, of Mettaton, soon after his arrival here. Meeting the robot a second time had jarred something of that core of knowing loose, and how unsettled he'd been, resentful and longing at once. Remembering a love that had felt impossible....
If only he could remember what he'd been remembering; how frustrating it was to have lost it another time. But those memories were gone, with only the emotion of their recovery left behind. Only the words he'd spoken out loud, with events suggested that he could only guess at.]
['Tormented by' indeed. Mettaton nods. Sense is arbitrary, relative; he views himself as not quite sensible, but dynamic, dramatic, arresting, and 'those with sense' are lured by him. Enticed and enraptured, as Emet-Selch has demonstrated over and again.
But he nods yet again, proceeding with the address of Emet-Selch's broad question from earlier. How did they meet in Aefenglom, and how did they get here, in love and married?]
Yes... Tormented from the very start! We met in a torture cell, you and I. Some humans had caught us—and important to note, as you might recall, is that we were each respectively turned into Monster and Witch.
[He gestures to himself first, then Emet-Selch to show off which was which. Which was Witch, and Monster. He knows they've discussed that somewhat, though with his own more expansive memory that transcends worlds, it can be a touch difficult to differentiate between what they remembered and reflected upon together in Nippon, and what was relegated to Aefenglom.
Mettaton eases their hands down together, settling them upon Emet-Selch's robed thigh. Mettaton does most of the leaning to close distance between them, keeping their eyes locked in comfortable closeness—comfortable to him, anyway. Bodily contact is maintained, even though Mettaton is trying to be considerate of Emet-Selch's unfamiliarity with affection. Because despite this, Mettaton wants to be a step ahead of him, to keep him on his toes. He knows Emet-Selch knows he's an affectionate sort, and there's only so far that he can restrain himself.
For his sake, though, he can. But unless explicitly requested to back down, he expresses his love for the smaller man every step of the way.
Mettaton relinquishes one of his hands to touch Emet-Selch's chest, just over his heart.]
Convinced we would die to their malevolence, I disagreed. So hard, that I bet against you. Should you lose, you'd Bond with me... lending me your magic and tying your soul with mine. As for what you'd stand to gain should we die, well. [He flashes a neat smile.] That doesn't matter in the end... though we didn't outline those terms.
[Which is to say, Emet-Selch had never stated any return prize for his victory. They'd 'figure it out,' as Mettaton recalls, even though he was so sure they wouldn't have to. They'd be rescued by the good will of others, and they did. He didn't need to explain what happens next, as they apparently Bonded thereafter.
But he proceeds with a continuation of their meeting, casting his gaze down into Emet-Selch's lap, realizing that a lot of the turbulence between them... came from whatever Emet-Selch did after his time on Etheirys, performing his duties as Emet-Selch there. It was Emet-Selch who lived among humans, pieces and fragments of a former civilization he loved—and longed to restore.
Still, one thing was right. With a smirk, the Puca returns to gripping onto Emet-Selch's hand, his brow rising as he shifts his body—to no real effect, as he just ends up snuggling into Emet-Selch some more.]
Relentless battering. Yes. I did a lot of that, darling. We came to blows a few times, our ideology clashing about what constitutes a life worth preserving. But even though we disagreed, I still...
[He sighs, closing his eye. Not only Emet-Selch know what Mettaton was, and understand him in a way most could not, but he incited in him sympathy. Intensely. He saw what he was fighting for, he understood why he'd do it—perhaps because Mettaton felt similarly about how he'd defend humanity, despite them not even being his own people. He understood.
Upon cracking open his eye again, he strokes Emet-Selch's hand with his thumb with a smile.]
We could disagree, and I could still care for you. And you... Well. We were intensely attracted to each other. In no time, we were indulging that chemistry with a passion, if you catch my drift.
[They found themselves making out quite ardently in no time, unsure of what they were hurdling toward, with no strings attached. And Mettaton makes sure to sigh, his attention sultry, waiting for Emet-Selch to respond... probably with scandal, as he expects he will. Is this the way Emet-Selch used to be, so reserved about his affection, his love, his sex? He tests the waters, and even decides to add a flourish.]
You called me a tease. But you were too, my darling...
[Though he doesn't recoil, he does tense up in his place at Mettaton's side. That particular aspect felt far more important than this business of 'monster and witch'- though he could remember that being brought up before. Mettaton had been made a kind of rabbit-monster (something which had happened again, somehow), and himself....
He'd been without his normal magic, without his sight (and rendered half-blind on top of it?!)- Emet-Selch could remember saying as much. That in itself felt hard to believe, but he'd been convinced of it. Which would explain the means of this capture, with how relatively defenseless he would be, but the why- it was beyond him.
And his expression reflects as much, moving between shock, disbelief, uncertainty. Past Mettaton's gesturing he looks away, having to reconcile this with... the entirety of his lived experience. If he hadn't had his own remembered responses to back it up, he would've wanted to dismiss it as some sort of mistake on the puca's part; as it was, he wondered whether one or both of them was delusional (But would that mean his attachment to Mettaton was similarly mistaken? That hurt too much to consider....).]
I recall mentioning something of that... a bet of survival, with the tie of our souls being the outcome. For this to be the context....
[What insane world had he been thrust into? Torture implied an active malevolence, nothing that could be written off as accident or carelessness. Looking down to Mettaton's hand over his heart, he's too distracted by the conversation to even note the incursion on his person.
Though he wanted to ask why he had been convinced that they would die there, something of the rest of Mettaton's words offered some clue to it. A differing ideology when it came to lives worth preserving? And the impression he had of himself, that the way he viewed others was... less than entirely sympathetic. If he'd been ready to assume he would die there, he must've had a reason for it- something to do with a disillusionment with others?
From pledging his soul as the outcome to a bet, to his plethora of uninvolved marriages, to how shameless he'd been about affectionate gestures in public, to... nearly everything he learned about this other life he'd led, was something to view with resounding disapproval (and no small measure of concern, unable to think of anything that would've placed him on this dubious path of... apathetic debauchery?).
Mettaton pestering him into a connection was the one thing he understood, from all he knew of the man here. He was absolutely the sort of person he was weak to, who knew exactly how to get himself underneath his skin and stay there. And that they had come to care about one another despite their differing positions, even bonding over a time of hardship... it was a point of comfort, somehow. (If he'd truly been as disillusioned with everything as he seemed, at least he had one person he felt he could confide himself in.)
And where he wanted to ask more about these ideological differences (while at the same time not wanting to know), he's caught short at the mention of their mutual attraction. Indulgences which... even if he didn't have his Aefenglom memories to go through, he did have everything that they'd done here. Memories which rapidly rise to the forefront of his thoughts, mingling with the word passion. Eyes snapping back up to the other man's face, he has more than enough time to catch that sultry look. And when he's described as a tease--]
I was nothing of the sort.
[He has to quickly protest, less offended and more... mortified. Scandalized to be sure. Though less troubling than whatever had caused him to become so apparently apathetic to the lives of others (and so fatalistic when it came to his own)- it was more embarrassing, to be privy to the romantic life of... himself.
And to realize too, that he wasn't anything like unaffected by Mettaton now, very conscious that he remained attracted to him still, even if he was far less used to being at all moved that way. Even so, he attempts to gather himself, even moving a hand up to prod the robot in the chestplate for emphasis. He couldn't let this stand. Somehow.]
And how do you define no time? You said we'd spent years together.
[As though he were catching him out in some hyperbole. As clearly their intimate involvement had only occurred after a lengthy courtship period. That was... the only way. Let him keep this one bit of dignity.]
[Perhaps Mettaton was intentionally glossing over some of those grittier details. They weren't pleasant, even to remember. It would be quite the diversion to explain to this greener Emet-Selch that he'd been bisected and tampered with, two of his three eyes blinded just on a whim. And he begins to get a better feel for the man who came straight from Etheirys.
How untouched he was, Mettaton finds himself thinking, having lived among humans and people of all kinds for years over combined. He'd seen the insidiousness of nature, though believed better of people as a whole. But there were some he'd learned not to trust... though he couldn't recall their names nor their faces. He recalls the tenderness etched upon his lover's tired expression, gazing upon him whenever he came to him with his heart bared, his self vulnerable.
Mettaton softens briefly. He knows with more clarity just based on inference what sort of people Emet-Selch had been used to... A more straightforward sort, he imagines, as he squeezes his hand in his. A torture cell, yes; that's where their bet took place, a will to survive between the call to oblivion. Though Mettaton didn't think Emet-Selch had ever truly wanted to die there, he'd been pessimistic, unable to believe in their fellow Mirrorbound or their chances of escaping the worst of humankind.
They gloss over it, as is Mettaton's desire. He pursues the more sordid aspects of their meeting, right over Emet-Selch's apathy toward humans, his lack of hope or belief in their worth. It wasn't something he didn't wish to share, but something he could share once he struck the heart of their meeting, the circumstances of their Bonding, and their bonding. Namely, when their passions flared... which they did earlier than their kiss, he admits, as they were passionate from the start.
Emet-Selch's denial earns an undignified snort out of Mettaton, whose smile breaks into something far sillier than its fine composure. He's positively unable to imagine it! It's delightful, and Mettaton tries to stifle his humor with a gasp as he considers the time it took for them to kiss.]
Hmmmm~ [He hums, lifting one of Emet-Selch's hands to press his knuckles to his silicone lips. He closes his eye in thought, mouthing them gently without parting his lips far, though they purse against skin, kissing his hand sloppily yet simply.] Let's see. A figure. No time, that means...
[It was hard not to dwell too far on their time in captivity with the Rathmore's. But Mettaton manages, glossing over that, too; he'd been in agony for time thereafter, but with warm hope in his heart for their Bond to be a balm. Mettaton smiles with more warmth upon Emet-Selch's face, cracking open his eye and gazing upon him with genuine appreciation, thinking about his lover's desire to help him when he needed it, about the remorse he showed him when he'd realized how much he suffered prior to his entrance into his life. There was much to reflect upon, and around every corner he's met with reminders why he adores this man.
And he counts the weeks. The weeks. The weeks, which couldn't even have the chance to blossom into months. It was their fourth meeting, taking place on Valentine's Day, which the people of Aefenglom didn't even celebrate. How long had they been locked in the dungeon but just until the end of Ieneuer? Mettaton remembers limping in his escape, and limping just as discomposed when he found Emet-Selch their second time.
He lifts his head to regard Emet-Selch more squarely, drinking in his feature. He's the audience to Emet-Selch's reactions, which he finds amusing, but also tenderizing, his husband's core heart. Mettaton rubs a clawed thumb over his knuckle, offering a decisive nod.]
Just less than a month, to kiss. Our fourth meeting. And then... you invited me to bed. To indulge in my newfound sense of sensation.
[It sounds positively lecherous framed like that, even MTT knows. Why, he would've thought the same were it told to him like that. He was always the sort to preserve his dignity, to maintain an air of untouchability... but with Emet-Selch before him, none of those appearances mattered. They were behind the drawn curtains, and always had been, even when they made a spectacle of themselves.
With another squeeze of his hand (this time, the one resting upon Emet-Selch's thigh), Mettaton makes his own side a bit clearer, for balance.]
Now. I would have normally balked at your forwardness, but... our attraction to one another is undeniable. And... [A more simple smile, one that conveys more of his adoration rather than his lust for Emet-Selch.] -from the start of our friendship, you always extended your hand to me.
[When it came down to it, Emet-Selch was in no rush when it came to learning about the more cruel details of his past. Of this other self's past. (Part of him was already in the process of denying it, how this 'torture' couldn't be as bad as implied. As Mettaton seemed quite undaunted by it- then again, he might just be that sort of person, to face traumas like this.) There would be a time for it, he knew, and he wasn't unwilling to know, but... for now he would leave that part of himself alone.
An easier- if far more exasperating- focus was the way his relationship with Mettaton had formed. One whose trajectory he pensively waits for, even as the puca draws out the moment, clearly more than a little amused by his own shock and dismay (which he remained unable to not show- but then, all of this was worthy of it!). Hand taken up without resistance, he couldn't keep from staring as it's kissed, practically mouthed as Mettaton pretends to need time to come up with a number.
It was an effective distraction though, a gesture romantic and suggestive both, the Amaurotine far too conscious of the way soft silicone felt against his skin (and how this hadn't been the first time he'd felt it), the suggestion of heat against tepid fingers. It was both relief and a disappointment when Mettaton lifts his head to meet his eyes again- not that this was any easier of a thing to do, considering the topic of discussion. (Discussing his own sex life with a robotic puca from another star- how could it be anything but awkward?) And then there was an answer.
Emet-Selch could admit (if he permitted himself to entertain the concept of this hypothetical torture) that meeting someone under such circumstances might have forged a stronger bond than might otherwise form. Managing a stressful situation together, yes... that could've sped them along this path to some degree. That, paired with making good on this bet, on tying them together as monster and witch- all were reasons to get to know one another at an accelerated rate, with some few of his defenses bypassed. He could accept that much.
But less than a month? Having only met four times? To have kissed, and to immediately proposition him?
Beyond the disbelief and increasing horror in his expression, Emet-Selch's first response is a choked sort of laugh, a pained noise, averting narrowed eyes as he unwillingly imagines the sensations they must have indulged in.]
That must have been some kiss....
[He eventually mutters, before shaking his head. No, there was no way. Mettaton was exaggerating or misremembering. Looking back to him, he searches the other man's face for some sign that he was joking, saying all of this to get a rise out of him. But no mercy arrives. Only a squeeze of his other hand, an admission that even Mettaton had found him forward (something that he can't help but wince at; what had he been thinking, to make an offer like that?). His eyes close, as if to block it all out.]
I seem to have extended more than my hand.
[But even with eyes shut, with his expression mildly pained- Emet-Selch couldn't erase the sight of Mettaton's smile, something that spoke of more than teasing alone, a caring that existed alongside this... seedy backstory. Something that matched what he did remember- that as amorous as they had been here, it had all been genuinely felt. (That was a consolation. If he was to be this desirous of someone, it wasn't merely about sating the needs of the flesh (and metal, and silicone).).
It still didn't justify being this... shamelessly horny towards a stranger, dragging him to bed after a lone kiss (as he assumes these events occurred one after the other; he also assumes that it had all happened in private, as a single mercy). He takes a breath; the fingers of the hand at his thigh dig into his palm, as he stares again up at Mettaton, eyes accusatory (even if their target is himself).]
What was wrong with me? Even if it worked out between us- [As they did seem to be genuinely and properly in love, despite this questionable beginning.] why would I do any of this? Propositioning a near-stranger on some sort of sordid whim--
[His reputation.... Vacillating somewhere between denial and dismay, in the end he deflates somewhat; somewhere in his face, there still existed some small hope that Mettaton would reveal that he had been joking after all. Would spare him this belated shame.]
[How horrified he is, Mettaton notes. So intensely scandalized that he can't even dwell on the sweetness of their coupling, the fact that Emet-Selch's gesture had been an indulgence and a kindness to Mettaton, in his eyes. They'd been so magnetic that coming apart felt like the hardest thing to do, tucked behind that kissing booth in plain sight, cuddled in each other's arms while Emet-Selch leaned his body weight into Mettaton thanks to a protesting leg. Mettaton had pressed his lips against his over and over, as they sampled each other with tongues and tested their receptiveness and desire and intensity most of all, and found each other worthy of more.
The white-haired man seated beside him, though, can only see how inappropriate it all was. And Mettaton doesn't find that unreasonable: they were making quite a scene, even as they treated the world as naught but an audience (or nonexistent, if it's from Emet-Selch's perspective). So when he posits a question, concerned and mortified about whatever's wrong with him in that body and in that moment, Mettaton snickers lightly, but doesn't tease him any further.
Nor does he deny that it was the truth. Because it is. He releases Emet-Selch's lower hand and pats his thigh through black robes.]
Do you deny my allure? I could make any man's knees weak. [...Okay, a bit of teasing. Mettaton's eyelashes lower in another sultry stare, before he blinks away his charming, too-perfect smile. He smooths his hand over the mage's thigh.] However, there might have been an underlying reason on your part, at the time.
[Maybe more than one. Mettaton knew that, and he averts his eye for a fleeting moment, pensive. But he starts with the easier reason, tipping his head slightly. His ears bob gently, their weight moving with the turn of his head.]
Bonded pairs like us, found themselves stronger if they enjoyed physical contact. Given your desire to enhance your magical talents... I imagine you saw benefit to closing some distance between us. And I am not shy, either.
[Emet-Selch hadn't had to tiptoe around Mettaton's sensibilities too far, and likely justified their concupiscence with just that: pursuit of power, and deepening of their Bond. Though this is but one excuse, and if Emet-Selch were to pointedly ask Mettaton before this hiccup in time, he would have told him it was a flimsy reason. That he knew to start that power was but a front for something deeper, more meaningful.
Because he knew better than ever, what that reason was. Mettaton swallows, his attention softening.]
And... there was something else.
[Something that spanned greater than even Mettaton could comprehend. The Puca had experience with a lack of sensation that he'd had since the very beginning of his life, and the longing to have it at all. To have Emet-Selch open his arms to him was more than he could dream... And how far they went together, how much it meant.
But while physicality meant a lot to him, Mettaton knew well what mattered to his husband. Emet-Selch craved something out of that transaction: company. He could hear it in his voice, every cry and sob, and he could feel it in the grip of his fingers desperately clawing into metal. He recalls how much his noises have changed over the months, the years; how having this companionship impacted him. Mettaton maintains his proximity, stroking Emet-Selch's thigh gently with the side of his thumb as he chews on a way to express something about Emet-Selch, to Emet-Selch himself.
He finds himself giving him a smile.]
... You're completely new to this, aren't you? You've never even had a sweetheart. My. You really are a busy man, I take it. I like a hard worker. You always suggested as much.
[Emet-Selch had duties. He was already busy enough with them. He told him he'd had a small array of close friends; they were all he needed. He'd never been the sort to put himself out there, only to be heckled by a few people who stuck in him like thorns on a rose. Mettaton tilts his head again, more prominently this time, as his ears umbrella Emet-Selch's head.]
Do you ever find yourself lonely, darling? I know you have many people surrounding you... but what about when you're on your own?
[Even had he the appropriate memories to go with it, Emet-Selch would've had a hard time finding any sweetness in what they had done. From description alone, especially when it all pertained to falling quickly into bed with one another- he couldn't see anything kind in it. All he had was the outcome, which... while a convincing state in its own right (and strictly speaking there was nothing wrong with being so enamored of one's spouse), left him no more approving of how it had come about.
The added tease gets a flat stare, disgruntled and unamused. Allure justified nothing, it didn't provide motivation, and he was too disconcerted to even respond to the hand on his thigh beyond a twitch.
But when the suggestion of some reason for his behavior is offered, Emet-Selch waits, unable to completely smother the meager hope it extended. That there was some motivation beyond reckless lust for some strange man he'd met during torture, even if he couldn't think of it himself- it would help to come to terms with the life he now had to live with the consequences of. Yet the first explanation offered inspires nothing beyond skepticism, and he tilts his head, voice further reflecting his dismissal.]
I know an excuse when I hear one. That I even had enough shame left to pretend- that's my only surprise.
[Was there anything this other Emet-Selch had done that wouldn't leave him disapproving, unsettled, or simply confused? The more he heard, the more reason there was for disappointment. He'd found love, but at what cost?
Sure, there might've been some practical benefit in strengthening this 'Bond.' Without his normal power at hand, if there was anything that might make up for that lack- he could understand wanting to look into it. But if physical contact was all that mattered, they could've just held hands or something similarly appropriate (still in private). Sex with Mettaton was unnecessary.
This suggestion of another reason, though... Mettaton's pause seemed to imply that it was something more valid than the last. Waiting for it (waiting to be disappointed again), the mage only finds himself surprised by receiving a question instead- if one Mettaton already knew the answer to.
It was more than a little personal; part of him still wanted to find it impertinent. But he reminds himself that they were married, and teasing aside, he had no reason not to trust Mettaton with details like this. So in the end he stiffly shrugs, while still sparing the puca a wary look. Not that he was concerned about this being used against him in any meaningful way (that level of suspicion was beyond him), but mostly wanting to avoid any further teasing.]
Is it so obvious? [He knows it is; he also knows it was made worse by the level of intimacy he was suddenly drowning in, the sheer contrast in experience only emphasizing it.] While you're not my first in all ways, yes- I've always found myself more occupied in fields entirely distant from romance.
[The question of loneliness gets a blink, defensiveness parting for something more pensive. (The persistent ache he'd felt from his other self, that had left him more inclined to sleep, his activities otherwise minimal... he hadn't recognized it.) His first response though, is begun with a sigh.]
When I'm on my own is the only time I'm permitted peace and quiet. A state to savor, considering how infrequently I find it. [As though his friends were nothing but a hassle disrupting his life. But from that easy answer he pauses, unintentionally but clearly unfinished; they each had their own work, didn't they? Sometimes Azem's took him outside of Amaurot for longer periods, with no idea about when he would return. Sometimes even Hythlodaeus became bogged down with so many concepts to review to even have the time to spare to come pester him. Occasionally Emet-Selch was alone, and while he would claim to himself it was a relief... it was more of one when he was back to being busy being annoyed and dragged into trouble.
And in either case, he never questioned that they would return.] --If I ever do, 'tis a fleeting thing. Doesn't everyone feel that way, sometimes?
[But it's also clear that it's nothing major, feelings that were soon mitigated once he found himself in preferred company again. His friends returned, and life as he knew it on the star continued regardless. Each day held its own security, even when he didn't know what problem Azem would (sometimes literally) deposit on his doorstep.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
~january event
But there were things to do in this part of Hokkaido that didn't involve only taking advantage of free luxury. And now that he was here what was there to do but explore, take in whatever local marvels were present? Which included a castle with warnings attached, a place claimed by ice rather than made from it. And with the folklore of the area itself of mild intrigue, he might as well have a look around. It would kill some time if nothing more.
Appropriately attired against the cold, gloves in place, the Ascian occasionally prods at bits of the frozen-over decor. Lamps, tablesettings, framed artworks (whose subjects remained barely discernible beneath the thick ice), all of it is summarily judged with an idle touch- but most of it he simply observes, taking the lonely surroundings in on his slow meander through these maze-like halls, unconcerned at the prospect of becoming lost when he could teleport himself wherever he pleased.
The first mirror he finds is notable by virtue of being the one thing not iced over, its surface preternaturally clear- reason enough to at least spare it a glance. And despite not being the sort of person to find the sight of himself particularly riveting, he stops short. He stares; brighter eyes than the ones he wore stare back, startled.
It was not an unfamiliar reflection. It couldn't have been any more familiar, a body that remained how he saw himself to this day, no matter what shell he wrapped himself in.
And the sights beyond, a glimpse of a place far removed from some cold, dead castle and this host of convenience... sights of something better. Drawing back from it, he frowns, pensive, looking away while seeing nothing but what had been (what should have been). There was obviously magic at play here, but to what end? Yes, there had been the warning of identity-stealing phantoms, but this was merely a reflection. Was it intended as a distraction, a cruelty, or a kindness? Was it with no aim whatsoever, but only his feelings made manifest upon some sensitive object left here when the castle was abandoned?
With uneasy curiosity, he moved on, steps echoed and heavier for them. And as his exploration continued, ascending each floor of the keep, every new mirror with old sights was a reason to persist.
(It could've been an insult, a mockery of his pain. How dare some power outside his command show images of something so personal. Those delicate spires, and broad stone streets; the sky above that had stretched forever. And a part of him did find it presumptuous, these displays. Yet with each floor... melancholy struck him too, if that perpetual longing could be described as something so mild. Every mirror was an indulgence, a glimpse unnecessary into a place he knew by heart.
And what harm was that? The dead were entitled to some amount of nostalgia, he thought.)
Finally he could ascend no further, by now knowing to search out the floor's mirror with immediacy, knowing there had to be one. Would some answer arise when he saw himself in this final mirror, or would he be left with nothing more than this, provoked memories from before the end? Steeling himself for absolutely nothing, Emet-Selch faced that reflection unblinking- and saw nothing more.
Instead, another entity manifests, to stand tall before the now minute mirror--
--and immediately smacks his head into the ceiling, with a startled, offended yelp. Hunching over automatically, the Amaurotine scans his surroundings with a scowl of continued offense that was quickly becoming something appropriately disgruntled. (What was this, a castle for children?) Even if adjusting his height to better match his surroundings was a simple thing for his magic, it's done with considerable indignation.
So the Emet-Selch that eventually emerges from the keep is nothing remarkable in appearance. Shoulder-length, completely white hair frames his face, but more notable perhaps is the slight luminance of his eyes. A brighter, clearer gold, the sort of thing that looked like they might even be visible in the dark with the way they shone. Garbed in simple black robes, in this initial period of some disorientation, he's neglected to put back in place the red mask that's affixed at his chest.
He knew what he was doing here... in a sense. But his actions thus far in this Nippon, his behavior in general- he would have some choice words for himself, if he could.
Returning to the safer grounds of the hotel proper, his manner is distracted, thoughtful, as he went through what he knew of this place. Of himself, and what he was meant to do with this opportunity. Despite not being especially dressed for the cold, it doesn't seem to be bothering him whatsoever, as Emet-Selch finds himself lingering amidst the flowerbeds, a dark blight amongst their delicacy.
Still sorting himself out (Still judging his past deeds... had he really gone about in a half-transformed state? In public?? And had sex in public too... he wasn't sure which was worse.), it would be the simplest thing for anything or anyone to get the jump on him.]
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(In reality, he tries his hand at shapeshifting, wondering if he couldn't master a human shape... His attempts lately at any sort of shapeshifting have been a bit wobbly, having to fuse both his understanding of a Puca's magic with the use of his own in its stead. It's led to a lot of mishaps, extra appendages, unintentional materials, malformed parts that just don't seem right. But Mettaton's pride is such that he wants to make sure that he's not all talk, even though he continues to boast that he should be plenty capable in no time. If he can time it right at all, he'll master shapeshifting soon enough...
Though he knows he'll reach a point where he'll need to ask for guidance. Here and there, he spends his moments examining, re-learning intricacies that he'd overlooked before... He would manage a complete shapeshift soon, and won't settle for less. Besides, he wants to take a luxurious bath without risking his chassis! He can't immerse himself in water in this body.)
From afar, Mettaton can still feel Emet-Selch... to a degree. Be it because of honed Puca senses or a bond fostered with Kizuna, he knew he was there, and knew, at least, that there was no harm befalling him... probably. For the most part Mettaton spends his evening lounging, though he takes a jaunt about the hotel proper, nosing into other people's business while his husband's away. Intrigue of all kinds but a diversion, as enough time passes hat he begins to wonder what Emet-Selch found so interesting so as to be away from his side for this long...
Before he can even consider venturing toward the castle of ice (and he does consider it, lured by the mystery of it just enough for it to warrant curiosity), Mettaton rounds the corner, as if drawn by... something. Around back, still on hotel grounds, he knows well enough by now that a garden of flowers carved of glistening crystal decorates this courtyard. That they're cold, though, he doesn't quite realize.
And really, their near glowing radiance only enhances the darkness that deigns to sit in their center. The tallest bloom of them all, topped in a head of white perched upon a tall, dark stem, is a man of particular significance. Of particular strength, his soul enough that even Mettaton can see it without invoking it.
Mettaton's lips part. He sees him from behind, but doesn't quite realize anything's amiss... Did he choose to alter the shape of his host? Mettaton props his fist upon his hip, cloaked in a dark, double-breasted coat that ends mid-thigh. His ears stand tall and swivel in curiosity somewhat, trying to get a read on the situation, before ultimately leaning forward in interest.
(Did he even notice he was here? MTT's ear twitches. Why is Emet-Selch so lost in thought?)
Smirking devilishly, Mettaton indeed decides to get the jump on him, crystal flowers be damned. Ears perked in high alert, he tiptoes a step or two before launching for Emet-Selch, wrapping his arms about his waist from behind, and opting to lift him in a warm, tight embrace.]
Hades! Here you are. Really...? Did you think you could somehow escape my notice with a little costume change, darling? How bold of you. But I see you clearly, beautiful.
[No, Mettaton does not truly believe Emet-Selch was trying to evade him. But why does he have white hair right now...? He didn't remember his clothes being quite like this, either. Without hesitation, Mettaton pushes his face into Emet-Selch's shoulder, still not realizing that too much is amiss, aside from... the obvious change in body. The soul he sees is no different.]
You're with your natural hair and everything! [He gasps, his arm snaking up and tousling a lock of white hair, even while Mettaton has him wrapped in his bendy arms.] Did you wish to blend in with the snow? What's the occasion?
[Mettaton had seen only a glimpse of the Ascian in long, dark robes. He'd seen him with his mask on, hood up; and he'd seen his approximation of a Puca. But that is not the same as this, which sparks Mettaton's excitement, wanting to know more. He latches on, holding Emet-Selch tight.]
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Suddenly: arms (winding, snake-like), words (cheerful, excited).
And a presence (familiar) that tied it all together, as he was practically lifted from the ground by a powerful robotic grip. For the second time in a relatively short while the Amaurotine's voice is given to a startled yelp, though this time it's also accompanied by a few moments of less-than-dignified flailing before recognition catches up with him and he gets a hold of himself (if not as tight a hold as the puca had on him).]
M- Mettaton!
[An accusation in a single word.
Tracing back the events of this morning, of the time spent both at this resort and upon this star as a whole, Emet-Selch was entirely conscious that while 'he' had performed all of these things, that it wasn't quite the same 'he'. There was no confusion there, even if it was an odd thing to experience, to remember these acts, these thoughts, while knowing he hadn't been the origin of them.
Among those things, he remembered his own feelings, his own heart. Questionable as he found his behavior, events that were beyond his ability to recall (an echo of an echo... the affairs on this 'Aefenglom' were largely blank to him, apart from whatever he'd spoken about with Mettaton here), he must've had reason for it all. Including becoming supernaturally married to this... Mettaton (there is, however, no record of it on his finger; that ring remained with that other version of himself).
Which all serves to keep his affront under control (yet at the same time, had it been a complete stranger, he would've fallen back into exasperated politeness, merely assuming that they must've thought he were someone else... the idea that anyone could mean him harm doesn't occur to him). It wasn't as though his friends hadn't ever greeted him in... well, less exuberant (that is, touchy) fashions, but had certainly taken advantage of his zoning out.
It felt natural and entirely not to tolerate the embrace that Mettaton settles into, head tucked into his shoulder, and positioning a work that spoke of utter familiarity with him. And while his shoulders tense, it had less to do with any discomfort at being held (the affection he had for him was too pervasive, even as it also struck him as bizarre), and more at this display being given in ostensible public. ...Fortunately it didn't seem as though there was anyone nearby (and a quick glance around didn't reveal any other souls around that he might've also been oblivious to; this show of intimacy could go unobserved).
About to chide him to remember where they were, his words are once again lost at the surprise in the robot's voice, the (again, exceedingly familiar) stroke through his hair. If there had been any doubts left about being involved with this man(? though alive, Emet-Selch wasn't quite sure what he was; some sort of familiar? Had he truly gotten married to some manner of creation, however sentient and soul-bearing? What in the world had he been thinking?) they were summarily dispelled.
...Natural hair. As if he would have any other kind- but he remembers with another frown as to how the body he'd been wearing here hadn't been his own. Not on any level, though he could recall some similarities to himself. Why he'd needed the bodies of others in the first place was in itself something to invoke a mild horror, and also something he chooses to avoid addressing.
Settling down, he stares back over his shoulder with bright eyes and an otherwise completely usual scowl.]
--Nevermind my clothes- [Good, normal robes like everyone wore. Or- not, if his memories of the cities here were accurate. Gods, the sea of uncovered faces present on this world, the plethora of fashion... such unrestrained individualism. For a second he goes blank, stricken by a form of culture shock, before stubbornly pushing that aside as well.] why are you even wearing a coat?
[At least put on a robe... (even if familiars could get away with being more improper, oddly shaped as they often were). This is, for some reason, the first point of protest; he knew Mettaton couldn't experience the cold (and realized too, that he would have a harder time discerning his own lower temperature... not that Emet-Selch intended to hide what he was from his apparent lover(!), but he hesitates too, to volunteer it).]
'Tis no occasion, only the work of some unexpected magic. [Sighing; though he refrains from squirming, he can only delay this protest for so long:] More importantly, try to remember we're in full view of anyone who passes by.
[Not that Mettaton had done worse than hug him tight, but that was plenty. Even so, it's a protest not of the intimacy but of their location. This may be a foreign world with its own social codes, but he had a reputation.]
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(Briefly, he can't help but feel he doesn't smell the same. That there's a chill upon his clothes that he can detect upon his lips—that, at least, is reasonable. They're outside, after all... Though he would've expected at least a touch of heat radiating from an organic body.
As for the scent, Mettaton continues not to think anything's amiss. Work of the wind; work of this change of clothes, or change of... hosts/forms. He would just have to impress himself upon him anew.)
Keeping him wound up in his embrace, Mettaton eases Emet-Selch down just enough to allow the Amaurotine to regain his footing after his struggle. This grants him just enough time to catch Emet-Selch's wary glancing, which Mettaton also doesn't think too much of, not yet. He's busy living moment to moment, and right now, he's busy with his heart overfull for him, curious and eager, ears propped up in interest.
Likewise, he remains totally unaware of his husband's(?) thoughts on him, likening him to an odd, soul-bearing familiar. Blissfully unaware of the world he'd so freshly come from entirely, still firmly believing that he was just taking on a different form.
But with Emet-Selch on the ground, still held flush to Mettaton's front, the smaller man in his arms turns over his shoulder to scowl at him. To look at him, with eyes that shock Mettaton to his core, enough that he totally doesn't catch his protest about his fine coat.
Expression morphing into that of shock, Mettaton finds himself nearly clamoring on him, leaning into him with both body and ears.]
Oh, Hades... [When Mettaton relinquishes his hold on Emet-Selch's waist, it's only to force him to spin by manhandling his body. He encourages him to face him, where he presses flush to his front, his fingers skimming up his chest to press fingers to his cheek.] My stars! Your eyes, they're...
[If the near sparkle in Mettaton's own eyes, eager and transfixed, doesn't imply his sentiment well enough, what would? Beautiful, he wants to say, but he merely gazes into them, lost at the sight of him. ...Enough so that he totally misses his protest about how visible they were to passersby, too.
Unexpected magic, though, he clings to. What sort of unexpected magic was this? Mettaton pulls himself together, gasping in eagerness as his eyes brighten—though not in the same sense that Emet-Selch's are nearly luminous, their gentle glow hypnotizing and worth coveting.]
What sort of magic have you had a run-in with, that gives you white hair and such dazzling eyes? Why, you're so— Is...
[A beat. The clothes, the mask pressed between their bodies. The gold of his eyes, the white framing his face... Mettaton gasps again, his hand fisting itself into Emet-Selch's robes squarely between his shoulder blades, while his thumb traces the corner of his eye.]
Is this... what you used to look like?!
[Expression open, ears leaning more than ever, Mettaton's on the precipice of joy at the thought. He couldn't have imagined the minute details that make up his lover's original body, if this is it. He soaks in any small tweaks of his face, from the lack of tiredness under his eyes to the animation of his expression, but especially the transfixing quality of his golden gaze.
Being in public naturally falls to the wayside of Mettaton's concerns. And having any protests lodged, too, becomes secondary, though a part of his subconscious ruminates over the now-processed warning. Why would Emet-Selch be so concerned about anybody viewing them...? Was there something amiss? (This body, he wonders... Is this a private sight to him? He hadn't even been given the chance to see it before, so he begins to wonder if that's the case, and his arm shifts as his shoulders foll forward, protective of his husband's visage and ready to cloak him if that's the issue.]
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...Of course, his friends normally did less scent-marking of him than this- an act that has the mage simply freeze up in the taller man's hold, as though he couldn't quite believe what the puca was doing. (Familiars, he eventually decides with a sort of condescending acceptance. Frequently more animal than man, even if this one's lagomorphic features had taken time to develop. Mettaton probably couldn't help that instinct.
And while Emet-Selch did smell like himself, there was naturally nothing of Mettaton left on him, on neither skin nor clothing. And that chill... superficially it's nothing strange; he'd been out in the cold for some time. But his body carries the same ambiance of the air, and while he's not at all icy, there's no suggestion of any sort of generated warmth. Strangely, deeper inside his body, the colder he grew, with the tepidity of his skin the warmest he could be.)
A break from being held up was welcome, a piece of his dignity regained as he's permitted his footing- but one that is just as swiftly lost again as he's turned around in those winding arms. A noise of protest escapes his throat at this handling, for all that he's struck silent again as he finds himself face-to-face with his... with Mettaton.
As he finds himself being gazed at with such fascination, paired with the hand on his face (another gesture inappropriate for public consumption, a touch that would suggest too much of their relationship), his own eyes widen at it all, breath catching and pulse suddenly quicker.
As rather than annoyance or indifference, frustration or confusion, the Amaurotine's reaction is clearly that of someone flustered. He'd never been looked at like that before, been considered so deeply or so fondly, and when it came paired with the strong affection he'd inherited in return, it struck him speechless.
This time, he's the one who mostly misses what Mettaton was saying, as he tries to collect himself, his furrowed brow something defensive, reflexive; for a few seconds, he even closes those eyes (which just leaves him more aware of the press of fingers to his face, the hand clutching tight into the robes at his back). But when a thumb strokes at the corner of an eye they open right back up again, to be no less caught by the lean of the puca's ears, the rapt attention writ into every line in that robotic face. Far more attention than he was at all used to; his lips part to speak. Nothing immediately emerges.
But when one of Mettaton's questions finally registers, it draws a blink, a reply slipping from him without thought.]
Used to? Mettaton, this is how I've always--
[But hadn't he just remembered that detail too? The sight of himself in various mirrors (the puca had already obtained a few of them to display in their modest residence), dark brown hair with a lone white streak. A perpetual exhaustion, something that made him look older than he was, and with eyes made so dull they barely seemed the same color at all. Regularly, he went out without any sort of mask, as though this other form were concealment enough... and perhaps it was. It was hard to see himself in it, in a way that had little to do with hair color or style.]
Have you really never seen me this way....
[But why? He just couldn't understand it- why he was in that body to start with, and why he'd been withholding this from his very husband. Cutting that thought off, distracted by the way Mettaton curls closer (though Emet-Selch was a touch harder to obscure in this body, having gained a few inches over that strange host... though he was still shorter than the robot), he wasn't quite sure what to make of his intent. But it was a reminder too of the other aspect of the puca's hands on him, the... unseemliness of it. These were reactions personal, so in that sense he would be grateful at being obscured if it weren't so intimate in the first place. So he lodges another protest.]
We are still in public, behave yourself.
[Though when he raises a hand to the one Mettaton has on his face, as if to nudge it aside, to encourage a return to propriety, his fingers linger over his instead, caught between reflex and... other reflex. The instinct that didn't want to lose that contact- and everything else which reminded him of where they were and what was appropriate.]
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Yet as he cuddles Emet-Selch close, the other man remains conspicuously taller. Conspicuously un- marked, no longer layered in syrupy cherry. All which still remains within the realm of believable, given the change in body. That, he supposes, also explains the height...
Emet-Selch gawks at him with such an expression that Mettaton's ear flicks, finding it novel, interesting. It's not a face he's readily made for him before, especially over something this comparatively innocuous... Brow quirking in intrigue, Mettaton chuckles lowly at Emet-Selch's... embarrassment?
It's too adorable, he finds himself thinking. But it also piques his curiosity in a more suspicious way... Why on earth is his husband so flustered?
It makes sense to him suddenly, when Emet-Selch fumbles over his honest reply. How he's always looked—Mettaton's ears spring totally upright, and he corrects himself quickly.]
Oh! Yes. You know what I mean. [The hand upon his cheek lifts just to wave it off.] Your body. The one you've always envisioned as... you.
[A tricky thing, and one Mettaton's asked after before... but to little avail. Emet-Selch never showed it to him, and often evaded the subject, he recalls. Why present it to him now? Both of them can't figure out why Mettaton could have married this man, and never seen his native body...
Mettaton plants his hand upon Emet-Selch's cheek again, brushing the back of a claw over his cheekbone, up his temple, and along his brow, fawning over his features, when Emet-Selch sternly protests the action altogether—much to Mettaton's apparent surprise. The robot makes a questioning hum that rises in intonation, a minor tilt of his head there to accompany parted lips, as Emet-Selch's fingers rise to rest against his hand—but do nothing more than that.
Open confusion blooms into a sultry gleam, as Mettaton flutters his lashes and hums deep and low. His palm presses more firmly to his lover's cheek, as if encouraged there by his touch, as he smiles warmly at him.]
Behave myself...? My my. It's a little late for being my bashful bride, my dear...
[He'd never been especially ashamed in the face of public acts of affection before... And if anything, Mettaton is only encouraged by Emet-Selch's obvious weakness to his touch. Two warring impulses, he notes with an appraising eye, watching as his lover's face morphs with open emotion, as his protesting touch lingers upon his hand rather than prying it away.
Mettaton leans forward to kiss his cheek, as chaste as he can make it. He is behaving, this kiss seems to assert.]
When has our audience ever been a concern to you? Or... Ooooh. [Even more lascivious does his expression melt, his smile spreading, dark-painted lid curtaining his sharp gaze.] Would you rather I whisk you away to somewhere more... private? I do want to get a better look at you, after all.
[As if this was his most natural form, a body made to appear like his native one... Mettaton was terribly lured, wanting to see him completely. He yearns to take him apart, to be watched in low light, to watch his lashes curtain his gaze as they found each other tugged into kiss after kiss...
But he wouldn't let himself get carried away so soon, and Mettaton hums, clearing his throat and maintaining a prim and proper (in his eyes) hold upon his husband, who he has wrapped in his arms in a crystalline flower garden. It was a romantic scene, he thought, befitting of two lovers. Mettaton pops one of his knees gently, watching Emet-Selch with just as much tenderness as he did heat, unabashed and unconcealed in his adoration for the smaller man.]
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Another judgement passed against himself; surely the more proverbial mask could come off inside the home, in the company of family? It wasn't as though he'd held himself back otherwise, which was its own judgement (It alarmed to remember himself so... lusty towards this man, so shamelessly desirous of him, actively anticipating testing the results of the puca's shapeshifting practice- while being thoroughly enamored of him even without it. Even if they were married, it spoke of experience that he couldn't explain.).
Having Mettaton's hand linger at his face wasn't the plan at all, but it was surprisingly difficult to nudge him aside when he was being smiled at like that. (And truthfully Emet-Selch was more conservative than many Amaurotines in these things... a few quick, affectionate touches were entirely acceptable between lovers.) Even if his look does flatten slightly at being described as a bashful bride; in retaliation, his touch over the robot's hand firms. (Retaliation, yes. A show of protest against being labeled bashful. He was disapproving, not embarrassed, he stubbornly decides.)
And then Mettaton kisses his cheek. Though he freezes at that too, it's for a briefer moment, for all that he's not yet getting used to the puca's forward (this counted as forward) behavior. As he could tell that this was restrained- and if he was being entirely fair, he would have to admit that it wasn't anything that would go particularly remarked on, even were they observed.
More distracting than the kiss, though, was the idol's claim.]
Our audience? [And for a moment Emet-Selch seems to take it literally, a kind of horror creeping into his expression... just what had he been up to, in the time before he could remember? He'd clearly known Mettaton from before... but apart from those unfortunate nights when the stars had been gone, and they'd all been a bit madder than usual (it was some consolation that he hadn't been in his right mind during that event, explaining a little bit about his behavior), they hadn't done anything too untoward in public. He holds on to that truth. Even so, the suggestion of privacy wasn't unwelcome, for multiple reasons; shaking off the latest bit of startle, he nods to him.] Yes, I... would prefer to--
[Emet-Selch understood what Mettaton was suggesting. It would be hard for him to claim that he wasn't intrigued himself, or uninterested. But that deep-set desperation for company, a recoiling from the fear of solitude- it was something beyond him, foreign, puzzling in itself (why had he felt like that, ceaselessly, endlessly?). Attachment (and if he were being honest with himself, attraction) to Mettaton aside, the need with which he usually regarded him wasn't there. Or rather, was more easily outweighed by something akin to embarrassment, especially while they were still in a public sphere.
It wasn't that he was shy exactly, but he was somewhat unaccustomed to romance. More than somewhat; when had he ever found the time for something like it? His duties weren't exactly trivial, and he took his role seriously, even the parts of it that annoyed. And to suddenly find himself thoroughly wedded, with an adoring lover looking at him with such a vivid, sultry gaze- it was a lot to take in. How did this even work? Even if the mage hadn't been completely free of intimate entanglements in his life, Mettaton wasn't anything like an Amaurotine in behavior or... any other aspect.
But more pressing- more important than his lack of familiarity with romantic endeavors- was an increasing sense of guilt. This wasn't a case of mistaken identity, as such... he was yet the same person underneath it all, he believed. But Mettaton thought him to be a specific version of himself, and when the puca looked at him so softly amidst that passion, an expression directed towards someone he wasn't- his hesitation on explaining could only fade.
Emet-Selch wasn't duplicitous by nature. Expression sobering, he gazes up at the taller man; gently he squeezes at his hand underneath his fingers, permitting it against his face (though it's a movement small, even halting, he presses his cheek into Mettaton's hand as well (how daring)).]
--There's a few things I feel I should explain. Things better said in private.
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And why shouldn't he be, if he's in this new-old body? Mettaton feels touched that his husband should present to him the form he found most true to himself, assuming readily that he had the right of it and that this was the explanation for most of his curiosities. Though he smirks when he can tell that Emet-Selch is agitated by his comment, he proceeds with his kiss, and notes that he elicits a good freeze out of his lover at that, too.
It's delightful, he thinks. Almost a new dimension of enjoying one another... Which doesn't surprise him, even though it impresses him.
Though he's even more surprised at his obvious scandal at the thought of being in public. Oh, how the tables turn...
... And yet, it seemed slightly out of place in a way Mettaton couldn't explain, even if his husband was somehow presenting him with his native body out of trust, out of love, out of a desire to share this with him. That bit, he felt, continued to not make sense, given Emet-Selch's brazen attitudes from before, viewing all potential viewers as lesser and therefore with an opinion that mattered not at all.
But for the moment, the Puca lets it slide. Especially when he continues to gaze into the resplendent gold of Emet-Selch's eyes, that yellow hue that shimmers and lights so brightly that he wonders if they'd glow even in the dark... Mettaton sighs, smitten, the edges of his soul more than visible to him even while he's watching him on a more physical level.
Softly, of course, Mettaton has to regard him. Because he loves him terribly, and loves even more the thought of such vulnerability, such openness on his part, as he nods and agrees with the desire to be in private. If his husband was about to be a bit shy in exchange, he would indeed whisk him away and hide him from the world, enjoying him for himself.
Before he can blithely accept his proposal for privacy, though, Emet-Selch squeezes his hand with a particular gentleness; tips his head into his touch, so slightly, but with such halting intent, that it felt... new. Like the stumbling of a fawn, unaccustomed to its first steps. Daring indeed.
Mettaton's smile remains soft for him, but it sobers a touch, brow knitting so minutely that it could go overlooked easily. His thumb glides over his cheek again, ears swiveling somewhat, even as they lean.]
Oh...? You have my full attention. [Shortly, Mettaton nods.] But all right. Let's head back to our room, then.
[There were two ways of going about this. They could walk there, as Mettaton walked here... or his husband would simply teleport them both, as he's inclined to expect if he's not feeling up to the walk. Either choice was entirely possible, and in preparation for either, Mettaton's hand slips from Emet-Selch's cheek to brush its way down his shoulder, along the length of his arm, where he tangles his fingers with Emet-Selch's, four to five. Squeezing his hand, he moves his body back just enough that he's no longer flush to him, hands entwined and side-by-side.
With a smile, he prompts Emet-Selch with a readiness to walk—or, teleport. Just in case Emet-Selch's not up to the walk (which Mettaton is always up to).]
Shall we? I'm aching to know what it is you want to tell me.
[Because he's getting the creeping feeling that there is something to explain, the multitude of little things beginning to stand out as one big thing, an entire act of hesitancy, of unsureness, of surprise. Mettaton can't make it out, so he'll defer that explanation to Emet-Selch.]
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(He would not fare so well were their souls to combine in godhood. Something so invasive and personal, and the form they would take....)
If it wasn't quite a polite distance or conduct, it felt a more appropriate compromise instead, to have his hand taken by Mettaton's (four into five... he remembers this detail the moment he experiences it, finding the way their fingers interlock strange and familiar both). Even if Mettaton had felt the need to brush all along his shoulder and arm in the process of getting there (a touch he'd merely accepted, wondering how long it would take himself to get used to this, or whether he could train Mettaton out of doing this).
Noting only the continued softness in the taller man's face (and feeling the echoes of his touch on his own), he nods once at the permission granted to go elsewhere- readily assuming it included the permission to use magic to get them inside.]
Just a moment, then. You're used to moving around like this, aren't you?
[As Emet-Selch does, indeed, choose to teleport them. Not because he wasn't up for the walk, but- well, he remained the sort of person to use magic to carry himself a few feet over rather than make the arduous journey himself (in his disorientation immediately after appearing here, he had walked part of the way back down from that keep while he thought things over... before getting lost in a bit of the maze-like portions and teleporting himself the rest of the way out). And it would avoid some public handholding, which- even if this wasn't Amaurot, and that no one from Amaurot would see him doing- remained something he was relieved to escape.
More importantly, it gave him less opportunity to put off what he suspected would be a somewhat awkward conversation.
Darkness briefly surrounds them (if with an edge of blue to it), obscuring the view of flowers and trees, snow and hill- to reveal moments later the room they'd been sharing these past days. Practically the size of the apartment they'd been sharing these past months, it was noticeably more finely equipped, with full sets of clearly-expensive furniture (With frames or details all made out of that plentiful everfrost, as if anyone would want a bed with a core of ice. Or risk frostbite in brushing against the decor. A material plentiful and novel only to tourists, presented as something luxurious and valuable- both Emet-Selchs end up viewing it with a touch of cynicism (this one intrinsically knew, though, that he was at no risk of even noticing any chill).).
Looking around as if to orient himself, he lets out a breath that was relieved and resigned both. Glancing sideways at Mettaton before deliberately looking away, he slowly extricates his hand from his, trying not to predict the sort of reaction he might receive from this confession.]
How to put this....
[Finding a couch to settle himself into, dark robes moving with him, he doesn't relax, no matter the security that being in private brought. Whether Mettaton joins him or remains standing, he forces himself to look to his face again, his own expression approaching resolute.
Mettaton's coat, his heels (how inappropriate for this weather, some distant part of him thinks; they did look good on him, another part also recognizes), his form as a whole and the rabbit features that now adorned it- he takes all of it in. Marvels again at how familiar he seemed, while being simultaneously new. A dear friend and a complete stranger....
There was nothing for it but to speak.]
I'm not the same man who ascended that castle. Who arrived on this star knowing you from some time before this. [Another frown; he resists the impulse to look aside, though his voice lowers a degree.] --Neither of us took this action deliberately. And yet I find myself here in my- his stead.
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And that's... it.
For the moment, he chocks it up to Emet-Selch being determined about whatever it is he has to tell him. So he brushes it off, though feels a touch bereft of the usual warmth and affection his lover usually gives. It's another sign that he clutches onto that something's not quite right, in any case, and he finds himself a bit off-kilter.
Enough so that when Emet-Selch asks if he's used to moving around like this, Mettaton lags behind, staring at him closely without much hearing going on. He analyzes the look on Emet-Selch's face, the clinical sort of formality in his manner, and finds himself a bit... hurt by it all.
He tries to brush that away. If it ever should resurface, it would be in petulant, playful pouty-ness... he hopes. (Which would mean it would be just teasing, asking for more of his touch, for more kisses, for more contact... and that Emet-Selch would be receptive to it, in the end.)
While his thoughts ride roller coasters, his ears make known his feelings clearly. They swivel, facing each side of his head; they droop, they fold back. One of them rises curiously, before each of them do, their backs facing Emet-Selch. But he doesn't need ears to express his emotions when he has a face to do that for him, as his eye softens, his brow knits, his smile fades slightly, only to rise again. Though soft, his gaze is colored that bit more by concern.
Still, he remains peppy at first, nodding just in time for Emet-Selch to teleport them away.
In moments they arrive in the privacy of their suite. It's... something, according to Mettaton's tastes, as it didn't quite measure up to his idea of true luxury. But there were certain aspects that were nicer than their apartment, while other parts remained lacking. (And Emet-Selch had made it clear that parts of the room were frigid, even when Mettaton couldn't tell. Employing his heating feature didn't seem to melt anything in the room, anyway...)
Reflecting on the room for those seconds, he catches the brightness of Emet-Selch's golden gaze, and feels totally caught by it—only for the man to look away, and to take his hand with it. Mettaton's lips part in protest, his ears flattening.
This is the moment he realizes something's truly amiss, and not in any way he could pout cutely at to appeal for love.
Even so, there's a story here, and Mettaton's determined to see it to its conclusion. As the Amaurotine sets himself down, a fluid motion of inky robes cloaking a body Mettaton wanted to know so intimately, the robot remains standing, stuck to his spot. But he doesn't break eye contact, especially when his husband(?) catches his gaze with his own, captivating him totally.
His eyes are simply stunning, he thought. Mettaton swallows, tied up in a mess of love and ache for him; of hurt impending, as he intuitively knew something wasn't right with Emet-Selch.]
.....
[There really isn't anything that could be done to prepare Mettaton for the news Emet-Selch has to break. His shock is made of a wide eye and lips parted, shoulders dropping degree after degree, as though his entire posture deigned to wither under the grave news. Mettaton searches Emet-Selch's face for the... joke, for the contradiction, for any sign that he's actually just dreaming and he's currently asleep. It can be hard to tell the difference between dream and reality, sometimes, Mettaton thought.
The air is just as chilly as the everfrost implies, their room themed in a crystalline blue with deeper navys and whites. No, the room itself was heated... but the air between them felt stagnate. Mettaton isn't even sure he's standing on his own two feet anymore, a sort of stage fright he's known only times before. He feels caught in headlights—caught before the luminous gold of his lover's eyes, as he watches him carefully, softly...
but he sees now, the hesitance. The guilt. The strange reception of him at all... Suddenly, though, Mettaton boils over with protest. He stomps his feet upon the ground and balls up his fists, leaning forward with urgency writ upon his expression.]
Wait-! If you're not... the same Hades who married me, how do you know who I am?!
[As if this is the gotcha that proves that Emet-Selch is... lying. As if he'd lie about something like this. Irrational though the protest is, Mettaton is not entirely rational even at his best, not always. For the moment, he reacts on reflex, and that reflex is to deny that the man he loves is, by virtue of this one standing before him... not here?
Mettaton quickly has more questions. "What are you saying?" is the dominant one of them all. Too many questions. His ears don't droop even once, standing stark upright, backs together and fully alert.]
If... Where else would he be? He is you. [A pause, as Mettaton processes. His voice somehow goes a touch quieter, more brittle, though it remains just as smooth.] You do know me... don't you?
[He hadn't forgotten him. He recognized him on sight. One of Mettaton's ears lean for Emet-Selch, still trying to figure out what this man was saying to him. What he was doing, in denying that he was the same Emet-Selch he knew. (He notices the lack of a ring on his finger. He decides... to not analyze it too hard right this second.) So then what was the purpose in telling him this?
(Where did Emet-Selch go? He scarcely wants to consider yet that he was somehow not... here.)]
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Trusting as he believed the robot was, he knew Mettaton wasn't blind. He wasn't being received in the way he was accustomed, with shameless, casual affection- and while Emet-Selch didn't see anything wrong with his own behavior now (of course he would be more formal in public, even when there was no one else around), he knew it was different. Reserved, when Mettaton was used to being granted the opposite, from him; those threads of guilt only grow more numerous at the sight, knowing that he was hurt, and only bound to become moreso.
But soon enough they were away; there was no reassurance he could provide, regardless.
Which didn't make it any easier to watch, as he begins to offer his explanation, as Mettaton reacts to it. The increasing awareness that something was truly wrong, the visible shock, passing into a verbal denial, the drive to refute him, to catch him out as merely pretending as some sort of cruel game (even as they both knew that he wouldn't do something like that).
Emet-Selch weathers it, more uncomfortable than impassive, remaining silent as the puca stamps his foot, as he works through his initial protests, settling on questions in a voice that struck him as fragile, no matter how smooth Mettaton could make it. Though the Amaurotine wasn't the sort of person who ever found it easy to provide comfort, that didn't mean he was without the inclination. Especially so now, when this was- in some impossible sense- someone that he cared for. Sympathy welled up, unbidden, useless; his own fingers tense, digging into his palms.]
I do know you. [He echoes, quietly, evenly.] 'Twould be easier if I didn't... and easier yet more complicated still had I remembered it all.
[Who would be the 'real' Emet-Selch in that situation? Another self with precisely the same feelings- were the individuals then replaceable? Or did only the original matter, with the second discardable, no matter how identical his love? A bit of philosophy he pushes aside, irrelevant. He didn't have those memories.]
Everything that I've done here, I know. Our reacquaintance, our... time together when the stars were lost. [Slightly more formal of a tone there, and the briefest glance aside; even recalling it was a point of mild embarrassment. But he presses on, the feeling passing for something softer.] Our binding, in a way that surpassed legality.
[Was their marriage so profound that it encompassed alternate versions of those originally taking part? It was something he couldn't entirely dismiss, not when he remembered it with such unfortunate clarity.
Looking down, partially to collect his words (partially to avoid looking at Mettaton's distress), he forces himself to unclench his hands, though he's little more at ease in the end.]
I know how he felt. How I felt... even if I lack something of the context.
[Which made the feelings not quite the same at all- but they weren't nothing, either.]
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Which is... not the man he met in Aefenglom, nor the man he'd come to learn. The lack of such tiredness under his eyes and his easier gait were two things he'd noticed off the bat, and should've been ready indicators that something was wrong. (Hadn't he used the incorrectness of his posture against him before? And now look at him. Mettaton tilts his head just a bit, continuing to scrutinize the man who sits before him.)
But instead of being able to read that Emet-Selch struggled with himself to comfort Mettaton, he pines for his touch, unable to understand why he'd deny him this simple pleasure when he was upset. Irate and hurt, his ear flicks as he tries to piece together this whole situation into something that makes sense to him.
He knows him, but only what experiences they've had here in Nippon... So he's his husband after all, Mettaton realizes, and it's the first bit of news that gets his ear to perk up even in the slightest. They did marry here; Emet-Selch knew this. Hope fills him.
Finally, he watches Emet-Selch avert his gaze. Hears him admit to feelings, to love. To the softness he could see in his gaze and the emotion behind it, a love that transcended understanding. Hollow where memories once were, but addled by the feeling all the same. It was something; not even for a second does Mettaton think otherwise.
And he softens again, in a direction that still aches. He can't understand what's going on, nor can he process it. Only by taking it moments at a time could Mettaton digest any of this, as he wanders on soft steps to Emet-Selch's side, where he eases himself down. Hand upon the cushion of the couch and knees together, his seating is graceful, legs poised and weight set gently, Mettaton is both close, but just enough distance away, as though respecting Emet-Selch's space despite his hurt.
No matter where Emet-Selch looks in the room, Mettaton's gaze is stuck to him. He continues to ache for touch, for some reassurance, and decides to sidle himself closer to the man he loves—and he knew still that Emet-Selch felt something for him, then. That he understood the gravity of their feelings. He reaches for those unclenched hands with his own and holds them, folding his fingers around the mage's—taking special notice of the lack of a ring.
Of course there was no ring. It still hurts to notice. His eye closes, grounding himself in... this, where it hurt. It hurt... a lot. He shudders slightly, squeezing Emet-Selch's hands.]
I... I see. So you know how we feel.
[A statement not intended to exclude the man as he is now, either, as Emet-Selch states he's privy to his own feelings. Mettaton's eye opens a crack, and he gazes down at their hands. Emet-Selch knows him, remembers him, and knows there's more untouched... What happened to make him like this?
Mettaton lifts his gaze, doing a poor job at piecing himself together for presentation's sake—but, hell, this is supposed to be his own husband. If he can't be vulnerable in front of him, then with who? He mouths syllables, searching for words.]
Then...
[...Once upon a time, they'd sworn to each other that should they forget, they would wrangle each other in once more. Mettaton feels a creeping dread at the thought of Emet-Selch having somehow been robbed of his memory, time made to revert itself for some cruel reason... But he holds to this, turning it over in his mind.]
... Tell me more. About you. About... the Hades you are, who can't remember our years in Aefenglom.
[His voice is still brittle, his heart aching. It aches, but not so brutally, not so blindingly that he can't think. His husband sits before him... and it's not at all cruel, to be in his forgetful company, Mettaton thought. He still adores him, and sees that same tenderness, though reserved, in Emet-Selch's manner. He wanted to know more of him; he loves him nonetheless.]
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As guilt remained, the Amaurotine feeling uncomfortably something like a voyeur to his own memories, something so personal that was both his and was not. More than embarrassing, it felt wrong to intrude... and yet, who else had any right to these memories other than him? They were his; he had a responsibility to them, and especially to the man who featured so heavily in them.
Gracefully, the robot sits himself down at a polite distance; caught up in watching him again, (how many times had he admired the precision of his lover's movements?) Emet-Selch is conscious of the strange familiarity of it, every movement something he'd observed before. But even he could tell it felt wrong though, for Mettaton to take a respectful place from him, rather than settling close without any thought required. Either Mettaton would artfully splay himself across his body in an unmistakable demand for attention, or he would curl into the robot's body himself (in its way, also a demand for attention).
It was a relief then, when Mettaton sidled that bit closer, as though it were some small step in healing this rift which had suddenly appeared between them. Hands taken up by the puca's, he squeezes back at them encouragingly- reassuringly? He knew his husband desired contact- that he was a very physical sort. (He still second-guesses himself otherwise. Should he... lean into him? Try to move closer himself?? They were married; it would hardly be inappropriate. And he knew Mettaton was hurting.
Carefully, he shifts himself a little closer too, so that they were just brushing against one another.)
They both stare at their hands, at what was missing and what was not. And he nods at Mettaton's statement, at what it encompassed. He knew how all of them felt, from the version of himself he'd unintentionally replaced, to the puca who sat next to him now. To... himself, made to inherit those feelings. Like it or not, he was in love with him.
How complicated. Unconsciously, he strokes a little at Mettaton's fingers, as he lifts his head, sensing the other man's gaze on his face. Seeing the look there only deepened the ache he was already feeling, but he endures it. There was nothing for it but to endure it.]
Years? [It's a statement that has him wince slightly, then sigh. He'd been gallivanting around that long with this Mettaton; he was missing that many experiences with him. But it did follow with the impression he'd gotten from his new memories. (A whole life, apart from that...?)] But yes- of course.
[Where to start though...? Frowning a little more, it's an expression thoughtful. Though when it comes to describing who he was, it was natural that the first thing that comes to mind is his work.]
You know my role as Emet-Selch. I must've told you of my place on the Convocation.
[Surely that much hasn't changed- and when he thought about it, he had been wielding his title as his name in this place, which was reasonable enough. (Just as reasonable as Mettaton calling him Hades; in private especially, what else would his very husband call him?)
And though he couldn't recall ever speaking of the Convocation to Mettaton, that, in its way, only followed. The sort of topic that would come up early in their relationship, as they first learned about one another; regularly mentioning that yes, it continued to exist- why would that ever occur? Not that it described anything of who he was- beyond a certain dedication, perhaps.]
I've never been beyond the bounds of Etheirys before. [A small musing; separate from all else, it was an interesting, if unexpected opportunity.] Nor has anyone else, I imagine. My responsibilities rarely take me far from Amaurot, for that matter- beyond the occasional summons from Azem, when he's found himself in some particular trouble.
[All names and concepts that he assumes would be familiar to Mettaton, so he doesn't stop to explain them.]
And here I learn I've been to yet another star. Azem will be beside himself, hearing of the adventure he's missed out on. [A point of light amusement; a moment later his expression turns into something more pained.] Not that I anticipate having to explain all of this.
[Azem would be bad enough, though distractable with descriptions of this other world. Hythlodaeus, given any details about his love life... he shuddered to think about it. The endless, relentless teasing.
Exhaling another breath, he shakes his head to try and clear it of that imagined, impending horror.]
--But these are all things I've likely told you all before. Mettaton- tell me of this Aefenglom. Of how we became involved- of who you are, this man that I've apparently married twice over.
[He did recall that detail, as they'd discussed it on this star. He was actually married; it was still a truth to be reeling from.]
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For example, Emet-Selch's hesitance to close distance between them is so very strange, he notes. It hurts, but he doesn't feel like it's revulsion that fuels Emet-Selch's manner... And if he knew anything about him, Emet-Selch had rarely been very considerate of his body, his proximity, his 'affection.' Now, there was a difference, he knew, in Emet-Selch simply interacting in kind and actually expressing real affect. This felt... genuine, in a way that toddled on unsteady feet. As though Emet-Selch hadn't the haziest notion... what to do with him.
Which amuses Mettaton, even where his heart aches for the sort of full-force embrace Emet-Selch could've given him in these moments. He imagines the man himself would have held him tight and finds himself wincing in kind, longing for that sort of touch... but he steels himself still, focusing on the freshly-arrived Emet-Selch who knew not at all how to navigate affection, much less with someone who'd already undressed him, fucked him, dominated him, fused with him, and claimed him as his husband and partner.
As Mettaton decides then that Emet-Selch's unsureness must be that this arrival of himself hasn't figured out how to navigate such things—which is, in itself, a remarkable thought that felt too bizarre to be true. An Emet-Selch who had no experience going through the motions of a good husband, who knew not how to kiss or hug or what sorts of touches to perform with someone he loves?
Mettaton stares at him intently, attentively, as Emet-Selch describes his history. His role with the Convocation, to which he nods shortly, distractedly. Why, if Emet-Selch is as unfamiliar with affection as he seems...
Just how inexperienced is he?! Mettaton blinks at him, contemplating the term Etheirys (had he heard it before? he can't remember too clearly, but he assumes it's synonymous with his star), soaking in the notion that Emet-Selch remains mostly in Amaurot... unless Azem beckons. A mention that pulls a smile of recognition out of him, and one that blooms into something more, excited.]
Wait...! Hades—you were in Amaurot before coming here?!
[His grip tightens excitedly, eagerly, as he leans forward for him, eye bright. With that revelation, he has to know—and it takes precedence over talking about Mettaton, which is a rarity.
Mettaton returns Emet-Selch's attempts to sidle closer with another sidle of his own, scooching nearer without shame. When he's this close to a revelation, he can temporarily abandon the pain and ache of 'losing' something, excited for this version of Emet-Selch who has lived so little in the ways of his later suffering, who yet resides in a world he deeply cherishes. Surrounded by his friends, surely, with Azem and Hythlodaeus his similarly cherished company. ...None of this has anything to do with Mettaton in his life, but he still felt excited for Emet-Selch, knowing the man had loved his world, his people, and his friends.
It's his husband, but under totally different circumstances... Mettaton cocks his head, curious.]
How many times have you married before me? Could it be...? Am I your first?
[He hopes so. God, he hopes so. Mettaton's tail flicks, knowing well that Emet-Selch surely wants to know more about them—but he didn't quite expect... this. The lack of years, the lack of lives lived, the fact that this very same man hadn't endured thousands upon thousands of years—it was a shock to consider.]
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But now he was thrown into the deepest end of conjugal harmony when he was only prepared for the shallows- and with a partner who already knew all the motions.
(The idea of having the experience enough to either pretend, to find the motions themselves familiar enough to not have to think to perform them- neither occurs to him as something plausible. The reason his other self had been so at ease with Mettaton was surely accounted for in those missing years of development.)
It was all a bit much if he allowed himself to think about it (especially when it came to how... much Mettaton must have seen of him, how much he must have seen of Mettaton; his imagination fortunately(?) couldn't begin to encompass everything they'd done in Aefenglom) but he wasn't unwilling to learn. If he was married, it was clearly for love (what other reasons were there?), it was something that he still felt- and if it took work to become the husband he was meant to be, he was nothing if not dedicated. He would support this robot he was suddenly terribly enamored of.
He still mentally stuttered when he dwelled too long on how close they were.]
Where else would I--
[Of course there were other places he might be on their star, one of those rare occasions he mentioned- but Amaurot was his home, where he spent the majority of his days. There was nothing remarkable about his being there.
But it's a thought and response that's cut off as Mettaton scoots that much nearer, invades his personal space that bit more- and while it's not uncomfortable (in a way he was still getting used to; the memories he did have accounted for that... but it was nice), he hesitates too, in knowing how to return it. How to respond, beyond knowing that he wanted to; his own grip on their hands tightens.
And where Mettaton had ignored his own questions, he doesn't try to persist- too surprised himself at the direction (and amount) of the puca's shock and excitement. It was a curiosity he had no reason not to indulge; they had as good as eternity to learn about each other (concepts like 'lifespans' applied to things like animals, after all) (that this magic bringing him here was at all finite is something he's unaware of).
But this particular question though, puzzles him, his brow furrowing as he wondered if he was misunderstanding something. When would he have been married before (with the disturbing implication that there had been several times, considering Mettaton's phrasing)? What... had his other self been up to??]
You would be the first. Nor have I known anyone I would even consider broaching the subject with. Had I mentioned a partner before you?
[He supposed that wasn't impossible (no more impossible than this particular robot marriage). If his prior spouse had chosen to return to the star before he felt his own time was through... it would surprise him, and he could only imagine the grief of it. But he would understand too, he thought- and would know that they would see each other again, in some other life.
And to find another love after that... again, it was possible. He had the proof of his feelings sitting next to him.
That there could've been more than this... now that didn't make any sense. He wasn't the type to fall in love that easily (and why else would he get married?).]
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For now, Mettaton remains transfixed not on their history together as a wedded couple, but upon Emet-Selch's present circumstance. In favor of inquiring further into the man who sits beside him now, Mettaton shoves aside his relationship with him in Aefenglom and addressing or describing it, as he watches Emet-Selch hesitate at their nearness (not with any discontent, he feels; it's a hunch he has that comes from being familiar with Emet-Selch, the way he grips harder onto his hand for lack of anything else to do), and try his best to keep up with Mettaton.
Mettaton could smile at that, too, woozy that his husband remains the dedicated, supportive. He's trying, and Mettaton can feel that in the touch of their hands, in the tension in the air between them. Though uncertain, Emet-Selch is smitten with him, just as fiercely as he is with Emet-Selch.
There'd be a chance for Mettaton to describe the trajectory of their relationship from start to finish. But for now, this was a good place to start: a position of discovery for them both. When Mettaton thinks about it... it had ever been difficult to discuss Emet-Selch's life on Etheirys so many years ago, especially when it often made Emet-Selch upset. He had a hunch that his reluctance to show him this body had just as much to do with the difficulty he had in talking about how things used to be, while still wanting to indulge in something that swathed him in comfort. Mettaton doesn't view this as a chance to go around Emet-Selch's comfort, so much as an opportunity to learn about the man he loves with even greater depth and intensity.
He unites their hands, clasping both of his own around Emet-Selch's, which are cupped between his. There, he squeezes; he smiles, nodding as a preliminary answer.]
Yes. Yes, you were married before me... And what a record you have of it, my dear. What a Casanova you are... Siiiigh. [(He says 'sigh.') MTT flashes a smile, playful mischievousness a glint in his eye.] Why, I don't think you ever gave me a precise figure of the times you've said 'I do!' But when I joked that you've been married thousands of times, you didn't protest.....
[Terrible. He waggles his eyebrow with a low hum, a teasing remark to get a rise out of this inexperienced Emet-Selch. MTT remembered how
Mikasahis friend, whose name he can't remember, reacted to the prospect of the Witch having been married before. Scandalized, she was concerned over what that meant for Mettaton! Even Mettaton felt quite possessive of Emet-Selch and his history of marriage, priding himself on having been the one and only to truly arrest him. That made the rest of them far, far less important.He leaves enough of a pause for Emet-Selch to react, but swiftly closes his eye, shaking his head slightly.]
... It's complicated, darling. You... had been married before, yes. But you told me it was never for love's sake, like it is with me.
[And it was quite the intimidating ordeal to explain to a younger (?), less experienced version of his husband all of the turmoil and turbulence he was (??) to go through, in the future (???). A pang of sadness etches itself at the corner of Mettaton's eye, wondering if this version of his husband was slated to endure hardships unprecedented.
He remembers a promise he'd made to Emet-Selch to use his powers to spare his world its downfall. That there was a terrible noise, undiagnosed. To meet the man who lived in that world, to see him so fresh... It's something of a reminder of his lover's heart, who he longed to protect. Every part of Emet-Selch was worth defending, Mettaton thought. He closes distance between their bodies, nudging into Emet-Selch's smaller frame with his hip, sitting flush at his side.]
It would be easier to recount how we grew close, you and I... if you truly don't remember. Though I'm sure you recall, at least, how our first meeting here went.
[That is... some of Mettaton's own troubles. Some of what brought them together even in Aefenglom, though it served to set distance between them here, at first.]
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Oblivious to that and especially to their historical romantic trajectory (and spared the scandal of realizing how... easy he had been, sleeping around with someone he barely knew), he does find their current closeness pleasant. Even if it wasn't what it had been, it was more than he was used to- but like this, it wasn't overwhelming either. To sit here like this with their hands touching, in close company.... (Though that ache remained, as he imagined it would- that too was made more bearable like this.)
That Mettaton had been expecting a reaction from him at the news of his marital past, Emet-Selch can tell, but remained helpless to not provide it. His hands in Mettaton's grasp twitch. His lips part as though to refute, or ask for clarification, or to say something at all, but no sound emerges. The furrow of his brow deepening as the seconds pass, as it begins to sink in (sparing a moment's disbelief at the robot saying 'sigh'... what an obnoxious man he was in love with), he clears his throat.]
Thousands.
[He repeats, while yet taking in Mettaton's face, searching for signs of it being a joke amidst the amusement. For the playful puca to take it back, and reveal the real number (of less than two). And while Mettaton teasing this other him without receiving any comeback wasn't proof of anything, when the robot's humor transitions into something more sober, there was the uncomfortable suggestion that he was telling the truth.
There was still the possibility that he was mistaken, but that would be an odd thing to be wrong about, to have never been clarified. And Emet-Selch understood even less why he would ever pretend to have married so prolifically.
(He'd gotten the impression that his other self was older than him, to some degree. That would explain the fatigue, he supposed, the excessive naps (not that he didn't enjoy a good nap, nor was he particularly spritely even on his best days- but whatever was plaguing this other him was on an entirely different level of non-energy). Why he'd allowed himself to become so worn down without returning to the star, he couldn't begin to guess. Something important must have come up.)
From horrified disbelief, his own expression also settles into something else, something more troubled. Being told that it hadn't been for love before Mettaton- didn't make things any better. Gaze remaining on the robot's face even with his eye closed, the Amaurotine struggles to make sense of his alternate self's actions. Who or what had he been marrying, and why?]
Complicated. [Another echoing, as though it would help him to absorb this.] I suspect complicated doesn't even begin to describe it.
[How much did Mettaton know? But he hesitates in asking, as though dreading what further revelations might arrive, already disturbed at this initial impression of his other life. The hint of sadness that he catches in the puca's expression further dampens any enthusiasm when it came to learning more.
So when Mettaton brings up a meeting that he could recall, Emet-Selch focuses his attention on that instead. (Attention too, on the further closeness on Mettaton's part. One that he returns after a pause, leaning a little against him as he thinks.) Their 'first' meeting... he nods at it, glancing away as he drudges through those particular new memories. They had both only just arrived on this star. He'd... needed to find a body for some reason, and Mettaton had found him just after he had.
They had been strangers, and yet not, surprised at a form of familiarity neither of them could voice. They'd kept each other's company for a brief time, the robot undaunted by his disaffected griping, as though they'd done it all before. And they had... revealed things about themselves that weren't the sort of topics one would bring up with a complete stranger.
(He'd mentioned being dead, he suddenly remembers, blinking in distraction at it. It still didn't explain very much on reflection, though, beyond being surprised at his choice in wording. Dead. And why had he been lingering in the Underworld rather than move on? How had he lost his 'original body'??)
(That Mettaton was a ghost inhabiting a robot... doesn't yet dissuade Emet-Selch's view of the other man being some manner of familiar. It would explain why he had a soul, if anything. That someone's creation- either by design or by the ghost sneaking in- had been given true life by the addition of a spirit... still sounded like a familiar to him.)]
We didn't remember each other at first... yet recognized one another still. You were pushy, a bother. The kind of companion I always find myself plagued with. [Looking back to Mettaton, it's with the echo of a flat expression, as if blaming him for this.] I assumed any familiarity I felt was simply that- an old dynamic, repeated.
[They'd eventually found themselves before some sort of... perverse entertainment. Which he'd somehow understood what was, had been able to view with complete indifference, rather than sharing in Mettaton's shock and startle (he'd only been amused at his companion's reaction, having expected it). Mettaton had been right to be scandalized; there were certainly no shops like that in Amaurot (they weren't even wearing masks.....).
Belatedly scandalized in his own stead, it dissipates as he recalls how they'd parted that day. How annoyed he'd become, blaming those suggestions of familiarity between them on outside magicks influencing his mind, this foreign kizuna. He'd rejected it, harshly.]
--I wasn't exactly kind to you, was I.
[Expressing his displeasure with Mettaton's behavior was one thing (an expected, natural thing). But blackmailing him about being a ghost was disproportionately cruel. Blackmailing anyone was- he didn't understand how it had even occurred to him as an option, much less one he was willing to take.
...There was one consolation though, which he voices after a pause.]
If it helps, I never intended to tell anyone about you. Even if I didn't understand why... [A small shake of his head.] The idea itself repulsed me.
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And Emet-Selch mattered a lot to Mettaton. He respects him more than anyone else he knew, and trusted him as much as one could trust. With time, the Ascian would surely shine light on more personal aspects of his world that went beyond the tragedy of its ending... Which Mettaton had already long since realized was what he was most familiar with of all. But since it was a world that matters to Emet-Selch, it matters to him, blindly and beyond a doubt.
Already, he could pick out differences between Emet-Selch as he is right now, and the one he'd married. This one was far more expressive, transparent in his surprise and disturb—traits he assumes come from the lack of experience he might have to face as he weathered year upon year. Mettaton watches his face morph from doubt to a muted horror, upset pinching his brow at the notion of his surplus of meaningless marriages.
And he assumes his trend of thought explored the edges of whatever tragedy must've befallen him to make him endure it all. Mettaton squeezes Emet-Selch's hand at his musing of the Ascian's complicated life, to which Mettaton nods. It was very complicated, and his ears flatten at the thought that this one might have to face the same fate.
But perhaps he could be prepared for some measure of it by exploring his own memory, as Emet-Selch begins to recall for him their meeting in Nippon. Seated on a train that jostled them gently, they chatted about their bodies and souls; they found ease in their company, and a spark of warmth between their fingers. Mettaton averts his gaze to watch their hands again, recalling their discussion of incorporeality—from those who were dead, and those who had never been 'alive' to begin with.
And of course, Emet-Selch had ended up blackmailing him with his openness. Mettaton hadn't expected someone to treat him so poorly—especially after divulging something so personal. But it made an impression that still lingers, as though expecting that most people would do this to him from now on—even if that person was his very own husband. It feels like the normal thing a person might do now, to the Mettaton who lives in Nippon.
But as soon as Emet-Selch clarifies his heart, ears that had gradually begun to fall stand taller again, surprise widening his golden eye. And softness takes their edges, as Mettaton lifts one of his hands to gently caress Emet-Selch's cheek, brushing aside a lock of hair.]
Oh, I know. I know now, anyway. [He knew Emet-Selch too well to not look back on the situation and see his regret, his defense, his hackles raised toward unwelcome (yet coveted) company. To defend himself from that which could hurt—from that which he could lose and be disturbed by, when he was otherwise so set in his ways. Mettaton nods reassuringly, a small smile gently curving his lips.] At the time, I believed you meant it. What a fool I was, I thought... But I still believed you and I had something special. Despite everything, I still felt I should trust you... even though it hurt. I forgive you!
[With all of his heart he believed that. He squeezes Emet-Selch's hand, recalling the spike of fear he felt in just thinking about the imposing Emet-Selch he'd met to start... and how he still wanted to cross paths with him nonetheless. But it provided some helpful insight into the man's defensive nature, especially in retrospect. He hurt, a lot—and it helped Mettaton understand even better why the Ascian might guard himself even from his husband.
Mettaton meets Emet-Selch's eyes again with a brimming smile.]
I also felt our dynamic familiar, you know. We both bonded over that... That we're often in similar company. Both here, and in Aefenglom. Face it! You just get along with people like me, Hades.
[First, Mettaton punctuates that by leaning into kiss him so chastely upon the cheek that it's cute more than anything, as though introducing Emet-Selch to the vast seas of affectionate gestures. When he pulls back, he winks playfully. It's hard to tell he winked, but Mettaton sort of... produces a little sparkle at the side of his head to express that emotion more clearly, sticking out the tip of his tongue.]
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It was something to keep in mind (Not that he was sure what to look for... and he didn't want to think that actual malice could be at all commonplace. Even in his own situation, he hadn't actually intended on making good on his threat, cruel as it was to suggest it in the first place.).)
While he refused to feel guilt for something he hadn't (sort of) done, it was uncomfortable all the same to see that he had that potential for it. To think on how he'd become that way... but it reassured to hear that Mettaton had realized the truth, even if not immediately. Where rabbit ears perk up, his own manner relaxes a degree.
Mettaton's touch helped too- though he still starts very slightly at it, of the softness of fingers brushing back his hair, to graze his cheek. But he nudges into it a moment later, and if it took deliberation to do so rather than instinct, it's an acceptance of the touch all the same. Of the intimacy it implied to permit it. He still sighs, more softly, voice turning into a slight grumble.]
Even if I'm not the one who should be apologizing for it... [His other self had rudely absconded, dumping the responsibility of it all on him.] I'm sorry you had to believe it in the first place. Even if you realized better... that your trust hadn't been entirely misplaced.
[Though it hadn't been the most optimistic of reunions, Mettaton had been right about there being something there, no matter how much he'd sought to deny or ignore it. Softening a little more at the squeeze to his hand, at the love and trust he could practically feel coming from the other man, it was easier for him to see, at times, at how he could've fallen for him.
Even when (especially when) the puca asserts that they were both drawn to their inverse in company- that he got along with people like him. (It was the awful, terrible truth.)
All immediate protest is delayed when Mettaton leans in to kiss his cheek. He recovers more quickly this time though, requiring only a few moments before fixing Mettaton with a disapproving look, as though he weren't moved at all by expressions cute or gestures affectionate (it wasn't at all directed at the kiss though).]
By 'get along', you mean 'tormented by.' As your kind is wont to do with those of sense.
[And he was doomed to be drawn in, again and again. To one opportunity after another, showing him things he never would've seen otherwise; introducing him to people he never would've met otherwise. (He enjoyed it.)]
Is that how we came to know one another in Aefenglom? A relentless battering of my defenses until I gave in and accepted your presence?
[They hadn't (he assumes) old memories to drive them together that time. At some point they had met for the first.
But he'd begun recalling memories of this other world, of Mettaton, soon after his arrival here. Meeting the robot a second time had jarred something of that core of knowing loose, and how unsettled he'd been, resentful and longing at once. Remembering a love that had felt impossible....
If only he could remember what he'd been remembering; how frustrating it was to have lost it another time. But those memories were gone, with only the emotion of their recovery left behind. Only the words he'd spoken out loud, with events suggested that he could only guess at.]
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But he nods yet again, proceeding with the address of Emet-Selch's broad question from earlier. How did they meet in Aefenglom, and how did they get here, in love and married?]
Yes... Tormented from the very start! We met in a torture cell, you and I. Some humans had caught us—and important to note, as you might recall, is that we were each respectively turned into Monster and Witch.
[He gestures to himself first, then Emet-Selch to show off which was which. Which was Witch, and Monster. He knows they've discussed that somewhat, though with his own more expansive memory that transcends worlds, it can be a touch difficult to differentiate between what they remembered and reflected upon together in Nippon, and what was relegated to Aefenglom.
Mettaton eases their hands down together, settling them upon Emet-Selch's robed thigh. Mettaton does most of the leaning to close distance between them, keeping their eyes locked in comfortable closeness—comfortable to him, anyway. Bodily contact is maintained, even though Mettaton is trying to be considerate of Emet-Selch's unfamiliarity with affection. Because despite this, Mettaton wants to be a step ahead of him, to keep him on his toes. He knows Emet-Selch knows he's an affectionate sort, and there's only so far that he can restrain himself.
For his sake, though, he can. But unless explicitly requested to back down, he expresses his love for the smaller man every step of the way.
Mettaton relinquishes one of his hands to touch Emet-Selch's chest, just over his heart.]
Convinced we would die to their malevolence, I disagreed. So hard, that I bet against you. Should you lose, you'd Bond with me... lending me your magic and tying your soul with mine. As for what you'd stand to gain should we die, well. [He flashes a neat smile.] That doesn't matter in the end... though we didn't outline those terms.
[Which is to say, Emet-Selch had never stated any return prize for his victory. They'd 'figure it out,' as Mettaton recalls, even though he was so sure they wouldn't have to. They'd be rescued by the good will of others, and they did. He didn't need to explain what happens next, as they apparently Bonded thereafter.
But he proceeds with a continuation of their meeting, casting his gaze down into Emet-Selch's lap, realizing that a lot of the turbulence between them... came from whatever Emet-Selch did after his time on Etheirys, performing his duties as Emet-Selch there. It was Emet-Selch who lived among humans, pieces and fragments of a former civilization he loved—and longed to restore.
Still, one thing was right. With a smirk, the Puca returns to gripping onto Emet-Selch's hand, his brow rising as he shifts his body—to no real effect, as he just ends up snuggling into Emet-Selch some more.]
Relentless battering. Yes. I did a lot of that, darling. We came to blows a few times, our ideology clashing about what constitutes a life worth preserving. But even though we disagreed, I still...
[He sighs, closing his eye. Not only Emet-Selch know what Mettaton was, and understand him in a way most could not, but he incited in him sympathy. Intensely. He saw what he was fighting for, he understood why he'd do it—perhaps because Mettaton felt similarly about how he'd defend humanity, despite them not even being his own people. He understood.
Upon cracking open his eye again, he strokes Emet-Selch's hand with his thumb with a smile.]
We could disagree, and I could still care for you. And you... Well. We were intensely attracted to each other. In no time, we were indulging that chemistry with a passion, if you catch my drift.
[They found themselves making out quite ardently in no time, unsure of what they were hurdling toward, with no strings attached. And Mettaton makes sure to sigh, his attention sultry, waiting for Emet-Selch to respond... probably with scandal, as he expects he will. Is this the way Emet-Selch used to be, so reserved about his affection, his love, his sex? He tests the waters, and even decides to add a flourish.]
You called me a tease. But you were too, my darling...
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[Though he doesn't recoil, he does tense up in his place at Mettaton's side. That particular aspect felt far more important than this business of 'monster and witch'- though he could remember that being brought up before. Mettaton had been made a kind of rabbit-monster (something which had happened again, somehow), and himself....
He'd been without his normal magic, without his sight (and rendered half-blind on top of it?!)- Emet-Selch could remember saying as much. That in itself felt hard to believe, but he'd been convinced of it. Which would explain the means of this capture, with how relatively defenseless he would be, but the why- it was beyond him.
And his expression reflects as much, moving between shock, disbelief, uncertainty. Past Mettaton's gesturing he looks away, having to reconcile this with... the entirety of his lived experience. If he hadn't had his own remembered responses to back it up, he would've wanted to dismiss it as some sort of mistake on the puca's part; as it was, he wondered whether one or both of them was delusional (But would that mean his attachment to Mettaton was similarly mistaken? That hurt too much to consider....).]
I recall mentioning something of that... a bet of survival, with the tie of our souls being the outcome. For this to be the context....
[What insane world had he been thrust into? Torture implied an active malevolence, nothing that could be written off as accident or carelessness. Looking down to Mettaton's hand over his heart, he's too distracted by the conversation to even note the incursion on his person.
Though he wanted to ask why he had been convinced that they would die there, something of the rest of Mettaton's words offered some clue to it. A differing ideology when it came to lives worth preserving? And the impression he had of himself, that the way he viewed others was... less than entirely sympathetic. If he'd been ready to assume he would die there, he must've had a reason for it- something to do with a disillusionment with others?
From pledging his soul as the outcome to a bet, to his plethora of uninvolved marriages, to how shameless he'd been about affectionate gestures in public, to... nearly everything he learned about this other life he'd led, was something to view with resounding disapproval (and no small measure of concern, unable to think of anything that would've placed him on this dubious path of... apathetic debauchery?).
Mettaton pestering him into a connection was the one thing he understood, from all he knew of the man here. He was absolutely the sort of person he was weak to, who knew exactly how to get himself underneath his skin and stay there. And that they had come to care about one another despite their differing positions, even bonding over a time of hardship... it was a point of comfort, somehow. (If he'd truly been as disillusioned with everything as he seemed, at least he had one person he felt he could confide himself in.)
And where he wanted to ask more about these ideological differences (while at the same time not wanting to know), he's caught short at the mention of their mutual attraction. Indulgences which... even if he didn't have his Aefenglom memories to go through, he did have everything that they'd done here. Memories which rapidly rise to the forefront of his thoughts, mingling with the word passion. Eyes snapping back up to the other man's face, he has more than enough time to catch that sultry look. And when he's described as a tease--]
I was nothing of the sort.
[He has to quickly protest, less offended and more... mortified. Scandalized to be sure. Though less troubling than whatever had caused him to become so apparently apathetic to the lives of others (and so fatalistic when it came to his own)- it was more embarrassing, to be privy to the romantic life of... himself.
And to realize too, that he wasn't anything like unaffected by Mettaton now, very conscious that he remained attracted to him still, even if he was far less used to being at all moved that way. Even so, he attempts to gather himself, even moving a hand up to prod the robot in the chestplate for emphasis. He couldn't let this stand. Somehow.]
And how do you define no time? You said we'd spent years together.
[As though he were catching him out in some hyperbole. As clearly their intimate involvement had only occurred after a lengthy courtship period. That was... the only way. Let him keep this one bit of dignity.]
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How untouched he was, Mettaton finds himself thinking, having lived among humans and people of all kinds for years over combined. He'd seen the insidiousness of nature, though believed better of people as a whole. But there were some he'd learned not to trust... though he couldn't recall their names nor their faces. He recalls the tenderness etched upon his lover's tired expression, gazing upon him whenever he came to him with his heart bared, his self vulnerable.
Mettaton softens briefly. He knows with more clarity just based on inference what sort of people Emet-Selch had been used to... A more straightforward sort, he imagines, as he squeezes his hand in his. A torture cell, yes; that's where their bet took place, a will to survive between the call to oblivion. Though Mettaton didn't think Emet-Selch had ever truly wanted to die there, he'd been pessimistic, unable to believe in their fellow Mirrorbound or their chances of escaping the worst of humankind.
They gloss over it, as is Mettaton's desire. He pursues the more sordid aspects of their meeting, right over Emet-Selch's apathy toward humans, his lack of hope or belief in their worth. It wasn't something he didn't wish to share, but something he could share once he struck the heart of their meeting, the circumstances of their Bonding, and their bonding. Namely, when their passions flared... which they did earlier than their kiss, he admits, as they were passionate from the start.
Emet-Selch's denial earns an undignified snort out of Mettaton, whose smile breaks into something far sillier than its fine composure. He's positively unable to imagine it! It's delightful, and Mettaton tries to stifle his humor with a gasp as he considers the time it took for them to kiss.]
Hmmmm~ [He hums, lifting one of Emet-Selch's hands to press his knuckles to his silicone lips. He closes his eye in thought, mouthing them gently without parting his lips far, though they purse against skin, kissing his hand sloppily yet simply.] Let's see. A figure. No time, that means...
[It was hard not to dwell too far on their time in captivity with the Rathmore's. But Mettaton manages, glossing over that, too; he'd been in agony for time thereafter, but with warm hope in his heart for their Bond to be a balm. Mettaton smiles with more warmth upon Emet-Selch's face, cracking open his eye and gazing upon him with genuine appreciation, thinking about his lover's desire to help him when he needed it, about the remorse he showed him when he'd realized how much he suffered prior to his entrance into his life. There was much to reflect upon, and around every corner he's met with reminders why he adores this man.
And he counts the weeks. The weeks. The weeks, which couldn't even have the chance to blossom into months. It was their fourth meeting, taking place on Valentine's Day, which the people of Aefenglom didn't even celebrate. How long had they been locked in the dungeon but just until the end of Ieneuer? Mettaton remembers limping in his escape, and limping just as discomposed when he found Emet-Selch their second time.
He lifts his head to regard Emet-Selch more squarely, drinking in his feature. He's the audience to Emet-Selch's reactions, which he finds amusing, but also tenderizing, his husband's core heart. Mettaton rubs a clawed thumb over his knuckle, offering a decisive nod.]
Just less than a month, to kiss. Our fourth meeting. And then... you invited me to bed. To indulge in my newfound sense of sensation.
[It sounds positively lecherous framed like that, even MTT knows. Why, he would've thought the same were it told to him like that. He was always the sort to preserve his dignity, to maintain an air of untouchability... but with Emet-Selch before him, none of those appearances mattered. They were behind the drawn curtains, and always had been, even when they made a spectacle of themselves.
With another squeeze of his hand (this time, the one resting upon Emet-Selch's thigh), Mettaton makes his own side a bit clearer, for balance.]
Now. I would have normally balked at your forwardness, but... our attraction to one another is undeniable. And... [A more simple smile, one that conveys more of his adoration rather than his lust for Emet-Selch.] -from the start of our friendship, you always extended your hand to me.
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An easier- if far more exasperating- focus was the way his relationship with Mettaton had formed. One whose trajectory he pensively waits for, even as the puca draws out the moment, clearly more than a little amused by his own shock and dismay (which he remained unable to not show- but then, all of this was worthy of it!). Hand taken up without resistance, he couldn't keep from staring as it's kissed, practically mouthed as Mettaton pretends to need time to come up with a number.
It was an effective distraction though, a gesture romantic and suggestive both, the Amaurotine far too conscious of the way soft silicone felt against his skin (and how this hadn't been the first time he'd felt it), the suggestion of heat against tepid fingers. It was both relief and a disappointment when Mettaton lifts his head to meet his eyes again- not that this was any easier of a thing to do, considering the topic of discussion. (Discussing his own sex life with a robotic puca from another star- how could it be anything but awkward?) And then there was an answer.
Emet-Selch could admit (if he permitted himself to entertain the concept of this hypothetical torture) that meeting someone under such circumstances might have forged a stronger bond than might otherwise form. Managing a stressful situation together, yes... that could've sped them along this path to some degree. That, paired with making good on this bet, on tying them together as monster and witch- all were reasons to get to know one another at an accelerated rate, with some few of his defenses bypassed. He could accept that much.
But less than a month? Having only met four times? To have kissed, and to immediately proposition him?
Beyond the disbelief and increasing horror in his expression, Emet-Selch's first response is a choked sort of laugh, a pained noise, averting narrowed eyes as he unwillingly imagines the sensations they must have indulged in.]
That must have been some kiss....
[He eventually mutters, before shaking his head. No, there was no way. Mettaton was exaggerating or misremembering. Looking back to him, he searches the other man's face for some sign that he was joking, saying all of this to get a rise out of him. But no mercy arrives. Only a squeeze of his other hand, an admission that even Mettaton had found him forward (something that he can't help but wince at; what had he been thinking, to make an offer like that?). His eyes close, as if to block it all out.]
I seem to have extended more than my hand.
[But even with eyes shut, with his expression mildly pained- Emet-Selch couldn't erase the sight of Mettaton's smile, something that spoke of more than teasing alone, a caring that existed alongside this... seedy backstory. Something that matched what he did remember- that as amorous as they had been here, it had all been genuinely felt. (That was a consolation. If he was to be this desirous of someone, it wasn't merely about sating the needs of the flesh (and metal, and silicone).).
It still didn't justify being this... shamelessly horny towards a stranger, dragging him to bed after a lone kiss (as he assumes these events occurred one after the other; he also assumes that it had all happened in private, as a single mercy). He takes a breath; the fingers of the hand at his thigh dig into his palm, as he stares again up at Mettaton, eyes accusatory (even if their target is himself).]
What was wrong with me? Even if it worked out between us- [As they did seem to be genuinely and properly in love, despite this questionable beginning.] why would I do any of this? Propositioning a near-stranger on some sort of sordid whim--
[His reputation.... Vacillating somewhere between denial and dismay, in the end he deflates somewhat; somewhere in his face, there still existed some small hope that Mettaton would reveal that he had been joking after all. Would spare him this belated shame.]
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The white-haired man seated beside him, though, can only see how inappropriate it all was. And Mettaton doesn't find that unreasonable: they were making quite a scene, even as they treated the world as naught but an audience (or nonexistent, if it's from Emet-Selch's perspective). So when he posits a question, concerned and mortified about whatever's wrong with him in that body and in that moment, Mettaton snickers lightly, but doesn't tease him any further.
Nor does he deny that it was the truth. Because it is. He releases Emet-Selch's lower hand and pats his thigh through black robes.]
Do you deny my allure? I could make any man's knees weak. [...Okay, a bit of teasing. Mettaton's eyelashes lower in another sultry stare, before he blinks away his charming, too-perfect smile. He smooths his hand over the mage's thigh.] However, there might have been an underlying reason on your part, at the time.
[Maybe more than one. Mettaton knew that, and he averts his eye for a fleeting moment, pensive. But he starts with the easier reason, tipping his head slightly. His ears bob gently, their weight moving with the turn of his head.]
Bonded pairs like us, found themselves stronger if they enjoyed physical contact. Given your desire to enhance your magical talents... I imagine you saw benefit to closing some distance between us. And I am not shy, either.
[Emet-Selch hadn't had to tiptoe around Mettaton's sensibilities too far, and likely justified their concupiscence with just that: pursuit of power, and deepening of their Bond. Though this is but one excuse, and if Emet-Selch were to pointedly ask Mettaton before this hiccup in time, he would have told him it was a flimsy reason. That he knew to start that power was but a front for something deeper, more meaningful.
Because he knew better than ever, what that reason was. Mettaton swallows, his attention softening.]
And... there was something else.
[Something that spanned greater than even Mettaton could comprehend. The Puca had experience with a lack of sensation that he'd had since the very beginning of his life, and the longing to have it at all. To have Emet-Selch open his arms to him was more than he could dream... And how far they went together, how much it meant.
But while physicality meant a lot to him, Mettaton knew well what mattered to his husband. Emet-Selch craved something out of that transaction: company. He could hear it in his voice, every cry and sob, and he could feel it in the grip of his fingers desperately clawing into metal. He recalls how much his noises have changed over the months, the years; how having this companionship impacted him. Mettaton maintains his proximity, stroking Emet-Selch's thigh gently with the side of his thumb as he chews on a way to express something about Emet-Selch, to Emet-Selch himself.
He finds himself giving him a smile.]
... You're completely new to this, aren't you? You've never even had a sweetheart. My. You really are a busy man, I take it. I like a hard worker. You always suggested as much.
[Emet-Selch had duties. He was already busy enough with them. He told him he'd had a small array of close friends; they were all he needed. He'd never been the sort to put himself out there, only to be heckled by a few people who stuck in him like thorns on a rose. Mettaton tilts his head again, more prominently this time, as his ears umbrella Emet-Selch's head.]
Do you ever find yourself lonely, darling? I know you have many people surrounding you... but what about when you're on your own?
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The added tease gets a flat stare, disgruntled and unamused. Allure justified nothing, it didn't provide motivation, and he was too disconcerted to even respond to the hand on his thigh beyond a twitch.
But when the suggestion of some reason for his behavior is offered, Emet-Selch waits, unable to completely smother the meager hope it extended. That there was some motivation beyond reckless lust for some strange man he'd met during torture, even if he couldn't think of it himself- it would help to come to terms with the life he now had to live with the consequences of. Yet the first explanation offered inspires nothing beyond skepticism, and he tilts his head, voice further reflecting his dismissal.]
I know an excuse when I hear one. That I even had enough shame left to pretend- that's my only surprise.
[Was there anything this other Emet-Selch had done that wouldn't leave him disapproving, unsettled, or simply confused? The more he heard, the more reason there was for disappointment. He'd found love, but at what cost?
Sure, there might've been some practical benefit in strengthening this 'Bond.' Without his normal power at hand, if there was anything that might make up for that lack- he could understand wanting to look into it. But if physical contact was all that mattered, they could've just held hands or something similarly appropriate (still in private). Sex with Mettaton was unnecessary.
This suggestion of another reason, though... Mettaton's pause seemed to imply that it was something more valid than the last. Waiting for it (waiting to be disappointed again), the mage only finds himself surprised by receiving a question instead- if one Mettaton already knew the answer to.
It was more than a little personal; part of him still wanted to find it impertinent. But he reminds himself that they were married, and teasing aside, he had no reason not to trust Mettaton with details like this. So in the end he stiffly shrugs, while still sparing the puca a wary look. Not that he was concerned about this being used against him in any meaningful way (that level of suspicion was beyond him), but mostly wanting to avoid any further teasing.]
Is it so obvious? [He knows it is; he also knows it was made worse by the level of intimacy he was suddenly drowning in, the sheer contrast in experience only emphasizing it.] While you're not my first in all ways, yes- I've always found myself more occupied in fields entirely distant from romance.
[The question of loneliness gets a blink, defensiveness parting for something more pensive. (The persistent ache he'd felt from his other self, that had left him more inclined to sleep, his activities otherwise minimal... he hadn't recognized it.) His first response though, is begun with a sigh.]
When I'm on my own is the only time I'm permitted peace and quiet. A state to savor, considering how infrequently I find it. [As though his friends were nothing but a hassle disrupting his life. But from that easy answer he pauses, unintentionally but clearly unfinished; they each had their own work, didn't they? Sometimes Azem's took him outside of Amaurot for longer periods, with no idea about when he would return. Sometimes even Hythlodaeus became bogged down with so many concepts to review to even have the time to spare to come pester him. Occasionally Emet-Selch was alone, and while he would claim to himself it was a relief... it was more of one when he was back to being busy being annoyed and dragged into trouble.
And in either case, he never questioned that they would return.] --If I ever do, 'tis a fleeting thing. Doesn't everyone feel that way, sometimes?
[But it's also clear that it's nothing major, feelings that were soon mitigated once he found himself in preferred company again. His friends returned, and life as he knew it on the star continued regardless. Each day held its own security, even when he didn't know what problem Azem would (sometimes literally) deposit on his doorstep.]
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