I don't doubt you for a second. But, short of locking me in a dark room until my consciousness erodes to nothing, there is nothing you can do to help. And you wouldn't do that to me, hm?

[And then Doppio's small hands are tugging at his towel, and it gives Diavolo pause. Blink and parse the intention behind the action — and as soon as he does, he glances aside.

There are so many things he wants to say. Deflect, deny. "Do you think me helpless, Doppio? I can handle this myself." It's one thing to be cared for when they are together, but, apart like this, it's just... strange. Unnatural. Wrong. Accepting this help would mean accepting what they have become. It would only prove how far he has fallen. He can't.

He could act as though the very thought doesn't make his heart race in his chest. Play it off as some gracious indulgence, some tender closeness not for his benefit. Never his; it is nothing he needs. "I'd allow it, my Doppio, if it would make you happy," and leave it at that.

It would be so easy.]

Please.

[He can lie to himself as much as he wants. His voice still betrays his true feelings.

There is no way to recover from such a small, desperate admission with his dignity intact. All he can do is loosen his grip and let the towel in his hands drop, and he lowers himself along with it, down to the floor in a slow kneel. His eyes close, his heart pounds louder, and he turns quiet and still.]