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[epitaffio]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, PURPLEPIPER. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 541.26.365.77 *** PURPLEPIPER has joined 541.26.365.77 <PURPLEPIPER> Am I doing this right? <PURPLEPIPER> Pretty weird to just leave a message like this is an answering machine or something <PURPLEPIPER> ME leaving a message I mean! <PURPLEPIPER> You can leave one if you want and I'll just get back to you whenever I can.

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[epitaffio]

[The sigh of relief that he breathes is, strictly speaking, unnecessary. It doesn't feel that way, though; instead, it feels like the weight that leaves him in the moment needed to leave him, so he could hold the Boss like this, one hand on the back of his head.]

Of course I'm not, Boss.

[He doesn't mind saying it again. He'll say it as many times as he needs to, until the Boss can feel safe again.]

Um... I know how you feel about the past, [he thinks he does, anyway; ignorance doesn't make a lie] but - all those versions of yourself... the ones I remember, anyway... They've all meant the same to me. So... I dunno. Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on them?

[...]

I wish I were as good with words as you are, Boss. That sounded so stupid.

[fateschosen]

No— no. It could never be stupid — not from you. My dearest, my only, my, my—

[A soft gasp, pained in the flood of words, and Diavolo buries himself closer. Nestles, nearly, his arms clinging flimsy to Doppio's waist, stilling him and steadying himself in one motion.

He feels a lot of things. Sick, dizzy, and exhausted to start, and the root of the trouble is the turmoil within, not the spell that pries apart his mind and lips. The problem is him. It's so easy, too easy to speak his truth. He's believed it for years. Doppio has always been with him for a reason, and today that reason shines.]

...'s why you're here. [Comes a half-swallowed murmur.] With me, and I with you. Where would I be without you, my Doppio? Lost. Constantly running. Unable to face myself. But I can face you. I can look at you, now, and... I can't hate what I see.

[It's like staring into a mirror a decade or so removed from reality. When it was his face, his gloomy expression carved into softer features, his piercing eyes breaking apart a gentle visage, he could hardly stand the sight of it. The desperation to outrun everything he was, to escape the past, to grow, to do better, to be better... even then it was built into him. Inescapable.]

And if you can look at me — soaked to the bone and miserable as I am — and tell me that I am enough... that I mean as much to you now as I did at my apex...

...then I can try to believe it.

[Try, try, try. Such a weak, whimpered finish, but it's the most he can manage today.]