[Mettaton jolts, briefly, at Giorno's response. Usually, the boy acts as tightly controlled as Mettaton himself - looks like he hit a sore spot.
He blinks, then goes back to combing his fingers through Giorno's hair, listening as he explains himself. Most of our mutual friends are dead. It's my fault.
...Mettaton's used to playing therapist with his friends. The subject's just never been this dour before.]
It's alright. My feelings aren't hurt. [Not like yours.]
[There's a soft shimmer to the air before one of Mettaton's little clones materializes in the air above Giorno's lap. It lands there with a flourish, reaching for one of his hands with tiny hands of its own.]
Did they get hurt because of something you did to them? Or because they believed in you? One is a lot easier to cast yourself as the martyr when you don't have to.
no subject
He blinks, then goes back to combing his fingers through Giorno's hair, listening as he explains himself. Most of our mutual friends are dead. It's my fault.
...Mettaton's used to playing therapist with his friends. The subject's just never been this dour before.]
It's alright. My feelings aren't hurt. [Not like yours.]
[There's a soft shimmer to the air before one of Mettaton's little clones materializes in the air above Giorno's lap. It lands there with a flourish, reaching for one of his hands with tiny hands of its own.]
Did they get hurt because of something you did to them? Or because they believed in you? One is a lot easier to cast yourself as the martyr when you don't have to.