"Kind." You are the only one who would ever think to say such a thing. I am not kind, I am... pragmatic. There is nothing to be gained by forcing the fish to be bored to tears in an unsuitable environment — that is all. It isn't mere sentimentality.
[Diavolo huffs at the idea that it is kindness that drives him; the very thought makes him feel... shameful, if he must assign a word to it. Dedicating time and energy to the care and companionship of lesser creatures is Doppio's expertise. But as he protests the intention behind his actions, an unease settles deep within him. He was doomed from the moment he gave the thing a name. Perhaps that was the beginning of the end. He'd allowed himself to slip headfirst into mediocrity, and what does he have to show for it? Soiled clothes from surveying the stormy gardens and an ache in his body that only grows with each passing moment?
A king does not toil away in the fields like a peasant. The Diavolo of the past would not have fallen so far. He spent a lifetime spent outrunning every past weak iteration of himself, but now the ghost that haunts him relentlessly is the one who lived and thrived at home, worlds apart from him in capability and accomplishment. The Diavolo of the past would have delegated these tasks to someone more suited to the mundane by now — he would have any human working for him in an instant with only a twitch of his fingers and a shower of sparks. One with power such as his was born to command.
But here, his mind protests, he is nothing special. Chosen to change and grow, yes, but so were dozens more. So was the very person who brought him to ruin, and he was chosen first. It's an unhappy thought — one best driven out of his mind as quickly as possible. Pressing on, there is something in Doppio's soft reassurance that lingers in his mind and brings him turmoil.
He can't allow this to go on.]
And this is not my best. It can't be. Nothing about what I am doing here is acceptable. This sort of existence was... never meant to happen. Not to me.
[A wince as a surge of pain ripples through his body — and he carries on.]
I am... so much more. I could reach out and take what should rightfully be mine — I could forge myself again into the Boss you once knew. The only reason I haven't yet is— is...
[There's a piercing pain in his head, a growing pressure that he can't help but rub his fingers against. With eyes pressed tightly shut, he exhales slow and ragged. This blight, this disease wants him to speak. Like the flowers that ripped his secrets from him, now this has come to tear free what he kept inside then — the truths that he died for. He won't let it win.]
I could. I could. I'd make everything right once more, rid myself at last of the hesitance that grips at me and move us both forward towards a greater future. It should be so easy. I... can't be so lost. You can't look at me and truthfully claim that this could ever my best. You—
[You can't lie. Not without a struggle, and Doppio's words come out so easily. He opens his eyes, then, and reaches out, pulling one of Doppio's hands into both of his own. He can feel the chill of the hand, so small beneath his, but the cold won't last long beneath the pulse of heat and light. He needs to feel Doppio's answer — whether it be the harshness of a lie swelling beneath his skin, or the comfort of truth.]
Please tell me you don't truly think so little of me.
no subject
[Diavolo huffs at the idea that it is kindness that drives him; the very thought makes him feel... shameful, if he must assign a word to it. Dedicating time and energy to the care and companionship of lesser creatures is Doppio's expertise. But as he protests the intention behind his actions, an unease settles deep within him. He was doomed from the moment he gave the thing a name. Perhaps that was the beginning of the end. He'd allowed himself to slip headfirst into mediocrity, and what does he have to show for it? Soiled clothes from surveying the stormy gardens and an ache in his body that only grows with each passing moment?
A king does not toil away in the fields like a peasant. The Diavolo of the past would not have fallen so far. He spent a lifetime spent outrunning every past weak iteration of himself, but now the ghost that haunts him relentlessly is the one who lived and thrived at home, worlds apart from him in capability and accomplishment. The Diavolo of the past would have delegated these tasks to someone more suited to the mundane by now — he would have any human working for him in an instant with only a twitch of his fingers and a shower of sparks. One with power such as his was born to command.
But here, his mind protests, he is nothing special. Chosen to change and grow, yes, but so were dozens more. So was the very person who brought him to ruin, and he was chosen first. It's an unhappy thought — one best driven out of his mind as quickly as possible. Pressing on, there is something in Doppio's soft reassurance that lingers in his mind and brings him turmoil.
He can't allow this to go on.]
And this is not my best. It can't be. Nothing about what I am doing here is acceptable. This sort of existence was... never meant to happen. Not to me.
[A wince as a surge of pain ripples through his body — and he carries on.]
I am... so much more. I could reach out and take what should rightfully be mine — I could forge myself again into the Boss you once knew. The only reason I haven't yet is— is...
[There's a piercing pain in his head, a growing pressure that he can't help but rub his fingers against. With eyes pressed tightly shut, he exhales slow and ragged. This blight, this disease wants him to speak. Like the flowers that ripped his secrets from him, now this has come to tear free what he kept inside then — the truths that he died for. He won't let it win.]
I could. I could. I'd make everything right once more, rid myself at last of the hesitance that grips at me and move us both forward towards a greater future. It should be so easy. I... can't be so lost. You can't look at me and truthfully claim that this could ever my best. You—
[You can't lie. Not without a struggle, and Doppio's words come out so easily. He opens his eyes, then, and reaches out, pulling one of Doppio's hands into both of his own. He can feel the chill of the hand, so small beneath his, but the cold won't last long beneath the pulse of heat and light. He needs to feel Doppio's answer — whether it be the harshness of a lie swelling beneath his skin, or the comfort of truth.]
Please tell me you don't truly think so little of me.