There are no changes: Mettaton has been here for well over a year. Aside from the damage sustained from his recent encounter with death, Mettaton is a completely transformed Puca, as far as his body will go. The biggest difference is how ratty he looks in comparison to the shimmering, silver-furred robot he looked like before.
Being cleaned of dried blood will be a vast improvement, no doubt.
At all of Elidibus' observations of his body, he can only hum. Alchemical? Mettaton doesn't quite understand what that means, and he watches his body wherever Elidibus looks, stretching his legs and leaning this way and that to show himself off. Mettaton smiles.
"My condition is a thing of magic, isn't it? Yes. You're not alone in thinking so, darling."
This is an unhelpful comment of self-preening. He also nods along: yes, his title is Elidibus, he knows this well. But Elidibus is just too many syllables. His gaze is challenging, daring the Ascian to make him change his already-settled course. If he wants to hyphenate a -darling onto his name, Lidi it is. But then... he asks for clarification on his stumble in words. C- alive. Mettaton glances to the far side of the room. Silence falls between the three, even though Mettaton smiles.
"Hmm... Who knows? Some synonym, maybe! Ha-ha." It's decidedly unimportant. Moving along. Mettaton's lips are pursed tight.
Good thing Elidibus suggests he turn, and Mettaton has no qualms with this, nor the suggestion of trimming down his fur. He smiles, sultry and inviting as he caresses his hip and tilts to the best of his ability. (Weak as he is, he might need a bit of help turning the rest of the way.)
"Oh my." He bats his lashes. "You're so charmingly forward. You're so lucky, given this chance to touch my supple... skin! Yes, do what you must." Mettaton shrugs with the arm furthest from Emet-Selch. "My fur grows back astonishingly quick."
Every single full moon, he's bound to grow some of it back. It would be no time at all before he recovered fur, of all things. The Puca labors to lay on his side, to face Emet-Selch, careless about the impression of a knife or anything of that ilk. If Elidibus has a knife, he trusts him to use it kindly. He smiles Emet-Selch before letting his dark-painted lids flutter shut, making himself comfortable while he's further cleaned and rid of matting and blood. Elidibus is free to work, and even freer to find unease in their deaths, pertaining to their woefully mortal condition.
Facing Emet-Selch as he is, his smile softens, a bit sorrowful. It was an overall pity that nobody knew of his condition... and that they were neither the types to rely on anybody outside of themselves. Could their deaths have been prevented? Emet-Selch had already tried to coerce Mettaton into being seen for the Cwyld, he knew, but the Puca was a stubborn sort. Mind controlled as he was, he saw even less reason to be cured of the Cwyld, and nothing Emet-Selch could argue would make him feel any more inclined to deal with it. He doubted very much that anybody could have swayed him. He'd have to be taken there by force, and that was a very difficult feat to perform for the flighty, feisty Puca. He'd make a right show of his staunch denial.
Elidibus prompts Mettaton more directly, and he's dragged from his own thoughts. His eye doesn't open.
"The latter," Mettaton comments simply, unembellished. Maybe even a bit tired, though his voice is smooth and pleasant. He even wears a smile by default. "I'd been attending meetings for weeks. They revered my condition."
And that was enough for him.
Elidibus touches Mettaton's ear. For the first time, the Puca flinches, every joint in his body stiffening as the muscle in his thighs tense. His eye flies open in wide shock at the sensation, and a memory slips in, the memory of gaining this wound at all. It... doesn't disturb as much as it ought to, perhaps. Maybe it was because he never saw it or registered it all that much in the moment. But he remains still and compliant as Elidibus heals and treats the wound, reminding himself that this would help to repair what could be... though he had yet to see what his ear looked like at all. It was a pulsing pain enough to make him wince if he thought about it too hard, but he knows it's there because he and Emet-Selch were starving.
no subject
Being cleaned of dried blood will be a vast improvement, no doubt.
At all of Elidibus' observations of his body, he can only hum. Alchemical? Mettaton doesn't quite understand what that means, and he watches his body wherever Elidibus looks, stretching his legs and leaning this way and that to show himself off. Mettaton smiles.
"My condition is a thing of magic, isn't it? Yes. You're not alone in thinking so, darling."
This is an unhelpful comment of self-preening. He also nods along: yes, his title is Elidibus, he knows this well. But Elidibus is just too many syllables. His gaze is challenging, daring the Ascian to make him change his already-settled course. If he wants to hyphenate a -darling onto his name, Lidi it is. But then... he asks for clarification on his stumble in words. C- alive. Mettaton glances to the far side of the room. Silence falls between the three, even though Mettaton smiles.
"Hmm... Who knows? Some synonym, maybe! Ha-ha." It's decidedly unimportant. Moving along. Mettaton's lips are pursed tight.
Good thing Elidibus suggests he turn, and Mettaton has no qualms with this, nor the suggestion of trimming down his fur. He smiles, sultry and inviting as he caresses his hip and tilts to the best of his ability. (Weak as he is, he might need a bit of help turning the rest of the way.)
"Oh my." He bats his lashes. "You're so charmingly forward. You're so lucky, given this chance to touch my supple... skin! Yes, do what you must." Mettaton shrugs with the arm furthest from Emet-Selch. "My fur grows back astonishingly quick."
Every single full moon, he's bound to grow some of it back. It would be no time at all before he recovered fur, of all things. The Puca labors to lay on his side, to face Emet-Selch, careless about the impression of a knife or anything of that ilk. If Elidibus has a knife, he trusts him to use it kindly. He smiles Emet-Selch before letting his dark-painted lids flutter shut, making himself comfortable while he's further cleaned and rid of matting and blood. Elidibus is free to work, and even freer to find unease in their deaths, pertaining to their woefully mortal condition.
Facing Emet-Selch as he is, his smile softens, a bit sorrowful. It was an overall pity that nobody knew of his condition... and that they were neither the types to rely on anybody outside of themselves. Could their deaths have been prevented? Emet-Selch had already tried to coerce Mettaton into being seen for the Cwyld, he knew, but the Puca was a stubborn sort. Mind controlled as he was, he saw even less reason to be cured of the Cwyld, and nothing Emet-Selch could argue would make him feel any more inclined to deal with it. He doubted very much that anybody could have swayed him. He'd have to be taken there by force, and that was a very difficult feat to perform for the flighty, feisty Puca. He'd make a right show of his staunch denial.
Elidibus prompts Mettaton more directly, and he's dragged from his own thoughts. His eye doesn't open.
"The latter," Mettaton comments simply, unembellished. Maybe even a bit tired, though his voice is smooth and pleasant. He even wears a smile by default. "I'd been attending meetings for weeks. They revered my condition."
And that was enough for him.
Elidibus touches Mettaton's ear. For the first time, the Puca flinches, every joint in his body stiffening as the muscle in his thighs tense. His eye flies open in wide shock at the sensation, and a memory slips in, the memory of gaining this wound at all. It... doesn't disturb as much as it ought to, perhaps. Maybe it was because he never saw it or registered it all that much in the moment. But he remains still and compliant as Elidibus heals and treats the wound, reminding himself that this would help to repair what could be... though he had yet to see what his ear looked like at all. It was a pulsing pain enough to make him wince if he thought about it too hard, but he knows it's there because he and Emet-Selch were starving.
He only realizes seconds delayed that Elidibus wants him to move, and Mettaton reflexively growls low, curling closer to Emet-Selch. His ears would move, but they can't. But his rationale occurs to him second. To finish with Emet-Selch, then to make their bed... The thought of having a clean, niceer bed was appealing. Mettaton gazes gently upon Emet-Selch, loosening up his posture and inquiring without words how his fiancé feels about them splitting for any duration of time or length of space.
All Mettaton says at Elidibus' request is: "Hmm..."