[it's a good thing that the role and behavior of a villain is, to Gon, quite relative and also subjective. or, really, well—it's awful. but it works for Mettaton, in this scenario.
Gon stands there, shellshocked, his tail standing at its height, its every soft fiber of fur and coarse strand of bristle standing outwards, along with the hair on his arms, with his ears high and alert, pupils pinpricks as Gon finds he suddenly can't breathe too easily—inhaling and exhaling both feel subdued by the smothering tightness of his own throat.
he barely hears or parses Mettaton's first words—Gon's instinct is to run after them, but he doesn't even have a compass or an idea to chase after. they'd simply vanished.
he hears Mettaton's question, though. his eyes, furious and wild, turn hard onto Mettaton. in the back of his mind, a distant, reeling echo reminds him to be calm; Mettaton isn't himself, nor is Mettaton necessarily responsible. he is a friend, and he is wounded. his teeth are grit in tense pause, all of that adrenaline, the energy from it, having no place to go. Gon's nostrils flare, and he takes a sharp breath in—and his tail drops.]
I...I don't know.
I came here because I felt Killua was in trouble.
[Gon reels the feeling—the vitriol, the instinctive rage—back. back, back, and back.]
...And you are too.
[dread cements in Gon's belly. he hadn't been able to do a thing for Killua.
what a useless Bondmate he is. and it feels just like it was at home—he's a useless friend. and left here, reeling from losing Killua so suddenly, absolutely unsure of how to pursue him just as abruptly—Gon's left here with his friend, maimed and infected.
will he be able to help Mettaton, even without the distraction of losing his Bonded, suddenly? does he have the means? the strength, or ability?
no subject
Gon stands there, shellshocked, his tail standing at its height, its every soft fiber of fur and coarse strand of bristle standing outwards, along with the hair on his arms, with his ears high and alert, pupils pinpricks as Gon finds he suddenly can't breathe too easily—inhaling and exhaling both feel subdued by the smothering tightness of his own throat.
he barely hears or parses Mettaton's first words—Gon's instinct is to run after them, but he doesn't even have a compass or an idea to chase after. they'd simply vanished.
he hears Mettaton's question, though. his eyes, furious and wild, turn hard onto Mettaton. in the back of his mind, a distant, reeling echo reminds him to be calm; Mettaton isn't himself, nor is Mettaton necessarily responsible. he is a friend, and he is wounded. his teeth are grit in tense pause, all of that adrenaline, the energy from it, having no place to go. Gon's nostrils flare, and he takes a sharp breath in—and his tail drops.]
I...I don't know.
I came here because I felt Killua was in trouble.
[Gon reels the feeling—the vitriol, the instinctive rage—back. back, back, and back.]
...And you are too.
[dread cements in Gon's belly. he hadn't been able to do a thing for Killua.
what a useless Bondmate he is. and it feels just like it was at home—he's a useless friend. and left here, reeling from losing Killua so suddenly, absolutely unsure of how to pursue him just as abruptly—Gon's left here with his friend, maimed and infected.
will he be able to help Mettaton, even without the distraction of losing his Bonded, suddenly? does he have the means? the strength, or ability?
can he really help anyone?]