[Doppio answers, and there's no painful surge of lies pouring into his body. Diavolo's expression shifts with every word, dread and anger and surprise and embarrassment — and he wants to dig his heels in and drag more out. If not that day, then it started before the wastes, then, where he was summoned as she watched, lurking needlessly, agonizingly close. What had the excuse been? That it was mere coincidence that it was her and him — that she'd been the one come to Doppio's rescue in his time of need? And he'd allowed himself to believe that there was nothing more to it, to put it out of his mind while more pressing danger surrounded them all.

The same pattern, easing her way close with promises of safety and care. He wants to protest and point out his suspicions, he wants to say so many things about Doppio's heated confession, but the words die in his throat.

Doppio has asked a question, and so he must answer it.]

A few months after I arrived. The passing of time was hazy for me then, so I can't be more specific. I couldn't sleep. I could hardly think. When it happened, I felt... almost serene.

[The past is such a dreadful thing. Longing for the past is far, far worse.]

As though I was in a dream... and fear and pain could not touch me there. We were inseparable. You held me close. You—

[Stop. This, of all things, should not be dredged up. But it must be.]

You told me my eyes were pretty. I... could not fully believe you.