"Yes, you have demonstrated how deeply you cared for him quite well." A child's fury is closely contained, kept cold and blistering in solitude. It does not swell and burst like something uncontrolled, a soap bubble scattering, ephemeral. It festers. "His memorial, for instance, just wasn't cutting edge enough for you, was it? Truly, you have demonstrated the utmost respect for him and his legacy."

So how long, Mettaton, until the inconvenience of being Asriel's friend overtakes your alleged affection for him? How long until every avenue is destroyed, every pathway burned to ash, the ashes buried beneath a statue that chimes so long as it is not getting wet?

"I have seen what you do to the things you claim you care about." There is a yellow brightness wrapped about their SOUL, or what remains of it, to match the gleaming red. "Alphys. Your dear, sweet cousin. They are to be used up and discarded when you are done with them; when the cost surpasses the benefit."

And when he does attempt to mend those bridges? It is always, always too little, far too late. Alphys disappears, and she does something cowardly. And Mettaton can consume himself in his grief and regret all he likes.

Grief and regret does nothing to bring anyone back.

They have learned that lesson all too well.