epitaffio | IC Inbox

[It is one thing to go on a petulant tirade — and perhaps that is all this morning's absurdity amounts to. It's yet another case of this universe driving him to his limits and watching him buckle under the pressure.

It's another thing to witness the aftereffects. Doppio is... shaken, to put it lightly, and though Diavolo cannot feel the same tension rising in his own body, the urge to soothe it away comes strong and sudden.]

Relax, Doppio. A photograph cannot hurt us here.

[Says the man who just snapped at the very mention of it. The one he is trying to soothe may well be himself. Now, the... secrecy, or the absentmindedness, or whatever it was that buried the topic until today — all of that he could judge. But Doppio responds better to sweeter words than harsh judgment.]

I trust you kept it safe...?

[He doesn't doubt.]

[Right. He nods, a little frantic; right, nobody else has a reason to use something like a photo against them, and... and there's nothing he could learn from it that the Boss isn't willing to tell him anyway.

Clearly. If this start of this conversation is any indication. No matter how disconcerting the thought continues to be.

The Boss is doing a very good job of calming him down. It's just... starting to make him wonder if maybe he's the weird one for still making such a big deal out of the whole... everything.]

I-I hid it. I'm trying to remember where - [And so he starts running through the possibilities again, this time out loud.] I couldn't have left it at Hestia's, it'd have to have been in a really shitty hiding place. I'm just, uh, just trying to... I guess-- Maybe a book I knew I wasn't going to open, or...

Doppio.

[His concern is endearing, but the single-minded dedication borders on disconcerting. Unease is infectious, and Diavolo cannot allow himself to succumb to it.]

Doppio, please. Breathe. [Wait, he doesn't need to do that anymore. Very well. Ignore that suggestion.] Or... sit. Eat more, if you desire. I can't have you falling to pieces before my eyes.

We will find it. And we will destroy it, and be done with it for good. But in order to locate it, you need to put your mind at ease. What is depicted in that photo that could be so dangerous?

[Vividly he imagines the man who raised him as he left him: a blackened and charred corpse, its carved-out features barely recognizable. But— he wasn't dressed as a priest that night, was he? In the ashes of their home, nothing could ever identify him as such. What, then, could the photo be of...?]

O... Okay.

[The Boss is right. He needs to calm down, even though he feels like he's made a terrible, awfully stupid mistake, not only losing track of the picture, but forgetting about it altogether-- No, no, forgetting it was fine. He just... He wasn't supposed to forget before he told the Boss. That was just plain irresponsible.

He grabs another cookie in the hope that chewing on it will at least disguise his panic.]

The photo, it...

[He still remembers what was on it, at least. ~~Though... isn't that worse than forgetting about it? He was never supposed to... He never should have--~~]

It looked like... a birthday party.

[And now that he's said it, it sounds patently absurd. It shouldn't be. It is. Of course it isn't. It makes his head hurt for so, so many reasons, and half of those reasons are also why the next few words out of his mouth are very quiet.]

For... you. [Again, slightly louder:] A birthday party for...

[~~For them. He can't say it. Of COURSE it's sensitive, of course it's dangerous. It's dangerous, so he can't say it.~~]

[It isn't remotely what Diavolo expects to hear. It's so absurd it takes him a moment to process, and even when he does think he finally understands what Doppio says, there's a hint of doubt in his voice.]

A... birthday party. For me.

[No. Not quite. He can verbalize what Doppio can't.]

For you. For... us, then. I can still recall several, hazy as the memories are. Never grand affairs, but he was fond of the festivities. I wasn't — not so much. But photographic proof that we were born is hardly a threat to our existence here, Doppio. Unless there is something more to it...?

[There is something more. He can tell, even if he can't quite place the emotion driving Doppio.]

[It's Doppio's turn to be less than sure he understands what he's hearing. Something more? Isn't it bad enough that--

(Internally, he goes back over the Boss's words. Their existence here. That's it, isn't it? Therein lies the... No, but it's still...)

He shakes his head hard enough for his ears to lag behind.]

It... It's a picture, Boss. Of, um, of you and-- A picture from back then, I'm pretty sure. And that priest... Um, the... guy you mentioned, I guess, he's in it too.

[Why is the Boss so okay with this? Why doesn't he get that... that, uh, the picture is...

Uhh...]

[...cute. So cute he can't help but laugh lightly at the sight.]

My Doppio.

[He reaches out a hand, brushes the side of Doppio's face and tucks a strand of hair behind a twitching ear.]

I would have to see it for myself to be certain ... but I would expect that it's a picture of you and him. I've never been fond of being photographed.

[The Boss's touch provides a distraction. It's hard to say whether it's a good one or a bad one, because in that moment, he swears his brain has ceased to function entirely.

However, tempting as it is, he can't blame the silence that follows on that. The gentle touch makes everything crash and tumble together; processing what the Boss says next feels more like hitting a wall head-on.]

Oh.

[He tries again.

The wall is still there. His mouth is open. He does not proceed.]

[It's acknowledgement, but it isn't understanding. Gently, he strokes Doppio's cheek, then pulls away.]

Such a terrible thing. You are protected from the past and all of its faults, even if I am not. But, lately, instead of embracing this gift, I— I want to drag you down with me.

[He shakes his head, tousling his uncomfortably short hair in the process.]

W-- Wait!

[He takes a step forward, as if the Boss were about to turn his back and leave. When he thankfully doesn't, Doppio needs another moment to find the words he's looking for. Unfortunately, he's not sure where those words are, but he's found some serviceable substitutes.]

Do you... wanna talk about the past? Is-- Is that it? If it is...

[It's weird, but he's not about to say that. Truthfully, in terms of weirdness, he has no idea where he'd rank it compared to everything the Boss did as a Pooka.]

"Talk about the past"? No, my Doppio, I want to drown you in it. I want you to feel the the same fear that I do, the same regret, the same...

[Ugh. His body trembles with a new energy that might be anger. Raw emotion surges to the forefront; it's enough for the stray to perk up its ears and scamper off cookieless.]

... Do it, then.

[Selfish as the thought might be, those may not be the right words for himself, considering the disconcerting dread he felt at the mere mention of the priest... But it's the only thing he can say, isn't it? It might just be what the Boss needs, and if that's the case...

Then, he'll accept it.]

Go for it, Boss. I'm listening.

[So bold, so obedient, it makes Diavolo pause. Some of the anger flees from his body, clearing the way for muted resignation.]

It won't ever be enough to hear me recount our past. I want you to take in every last vivid, vicious detail of it. But if words and bygone favorites aren't enough to spark your memory, then...

[All hope is not lost. One potential springs to mind.]

...the Cube. Let me take you there. Let me show you.

[Doppio feels very cold, very suddenly, which is noteworthy considering he's not only a corpse, but one who can give people frostbite if he isn't careful. He isn't taking back what he said, but what the Boss is proposing...]

Are... Are you sure?

[... No. No, that sounds too much like he doesn't want to do this, and he just said otherwise.]

I-- O-Okay. Yeah, okay.

[He's sure. He hardly expends effort tidying the kitchen, only bothering to put the cookies away before he guides Doppio out the door with a hand pressed to his shoulder. Quiet, perhaps, and lost in thought, but so sure in this moment.

Before long, they slip away from their reality and into a near-perfect facsimile of the past. They stand before a white church, not far from the beach. A bright, sunny sky. The sounds of people in the distance and of gulls in the air. Not a trace of smoke clouds their eyes or burns their lungs.

Everything that transpired feels like a lifetime ago, now. It's so tranquil, Diavolo could almost be at peace here.

A version of himself was. He doesn't know how he feels about that. Bitter, maybe. Ashamed.

He tenses, hands balling into fists. He is himself in this place, his body smaller and weaker, and he feels naked without the cover of wing and light that should surround him. He can't feel the pulse of King Crimson beneath his skin; he only feels painfully, achingly helpless. To drown out the feeling, he turns to Doppio.]

Does it make you feel anything...? Anything at all?

[Because it's making him feel something. Regret — for coming here at all, for tearing old wounds open again.]

[The trip to the Cube feels incredibly long, except when they get there Doppio can't help thinking they arrived far too quickly. The march to one of the rooms is just as bizarrely contradictory, slow and grueling until the Boss opens the door and Doppio feels a strong need to pull the brakes.

He lets out a shuddering breath instead. As the scenery begins to take shape around them, he faintly wonders if he'd been holding it in since they went outside.

Some of this does look familiar; not for the reasons the Boss hopes to hear, he's fairly sure. The clear skies, the scent on the breeze... This is what was trying to follow him back when that heavy fog consumed Bavan, isn't it?

And he just kept moving.

It feels... about the same.]

... My head kind of hurts.

[Like the air itself wants to give him a migraine.]

But, um, it's not all bad. It feels kind of... I dunno how to put it...

[Unthinkingly, he rests his hand on his stomach.]

[People are staring.

—no. Imitations of people are going about their rigidly simulated lives, and sometimes in their paths they fleetingly look in Diavolo's general direction. There is no one here but Doppio to truly see him; the rest are only fragmented memories of bygone routines haphazardly cobbled together.

Somehow, reframing it doesn't make Diavolo feel any less scrutinized.

A woman glances through them as she tends to some potted plants livening up the street. Elderly. Peaceful. She hums a tune to herself, and though he can't quite place it anymore, he knows he's heard it countless times before.

Dead, he recalls, in the fire. Too close to the source to escape. She hadn't done anything wrong, not really, except be a bit too nosy, always full of well-meaning but excruciating questions about his day, his schoolwork, his father's health. He never liked to answer any of them, preferring to shuffle back indoors as quickly and quietly as possible. She never really knew, of course, why some days the neighbor boy was oddly quiet, but he remembers her accepting the discrepancies in personality graciously enough.

An unfortunate casualty. He saw her name in the paper and it gave him a moment's pause years ago. He wonders what would happen if he struck her down here and now. Anything to ease the tension welling up within him. Anything to get her to stop looking.]

Hmm?

[—oh. Doppio. There, off to his side, exactly where he shouldn't be. It's hard to disguise the initial shock ... and the hint of disappointment that comes after.

This is already too much. He's getting caught up in the past. He wants to give up, but he won't, not until Doppio is every bit as desperate to leave.]

[Doppio's eyes linger nowhere for too long. Not on any of the houses or the street they stand in or the people surrounding them; every time, he finds something else to look at so quickly that he thinks the constant movement must be what's making him feel ever so slightly queasy.

There's an easy excuse; he's still trying to figure out what it is, exactly, that he's feeling. Then it hits him, and the excuse is gone, but he still doesn't want to look anywhere. He ends up looking at the Boss, and he does feel a pang of guilt when another realisation ensues: somehow, it's easier to look at the Boss than at anything else here, and that's...

Now that, he doesn't know what it makes him feel. Everything is different. Everything has GROWN different, and yet--]

W... Why are we here? Why'd you want me to see this?

[Why are they looking back this far?]

[Why? A thousand half-formed reasons spring to mind, and none of them would hold up under any scrutiny. Diavolo tenses and allows one reason to flow freely.]

The memory of this place weighs heavily on me. Won't you bear it for me, for just a while? This world has a way of dragging the worst to the surface, and it has been incessant. For months, I haven't been able to stop thinking about... so much. [He falters there, struggling to phrase himself, at a loss for words. With a shake of his head, he moves past it.]

I despise the past for making me so weak, and I would give anything to see a fraction of that same hatred in your eyes. But I look at you, and I see nothing there. Emptiness. It can't hurt you; it has no hold over you. It drives me out of my mind, Doppio, to be so alone.

[He speaks as though being here is horrific, but, beneath the bright blue sky, it's nothing short of tranquil here, a picturesque seaside town. The only conflict rests firmly within him.]

[Okay. Okay. He nods wordlessly, breathlessly - he gets it. He has to look. Take in the sights. Feel what the Boss is feeling. Because--]

Y-Y... I don't want you to be alone.

[It's unbearable - both being alone and the thought that the Boss has to endure such a feeling. So he tries again, and he looks. He lets himself linger: on the unfamiliar houses (doesn't something ring a bell about that little yellow house with the dog sleeping in front?), on the street they stand in (this - no, why does he-- no, no, the taxi took this street when they-- when he was going to Costa Smeralda, didn't it?), on the people...

The people. The faces of strangers who look at him with fondness or with disdain or even with only the faintest glimmer of recognition.

He's breathing too hard, too quickly. His hands squeeze at the sides of his skull.]

I-I'm trying. I'm trying, Boss. [It hurts.] What-- What am I looking for?

[I don't want you to be alone.]

[It brings a small smile to Diavolo's face and it drowns out the world around him, if only for a moment. Then Doppio winces and his heavy breathing breaks the reverie, and Diavolo can't help but to move in closer. He closes the gap between them, presses himself against Doppio's back, and curls his arms around him. It's easier to touch like this from behind. It's easier to exist at all here, where he can lean in close and study the world from behind Doppio's shoulder. Safer, warmer — not quite right, but nothing here ever is.]

And I will never be alone — as long as you stay with me.

[Doppio is tense, ragged and worn, and it strikes Diavolo that this may be too much too fast. Impulse after impulse led to this moment with no rationale in sight. What is his plan? What did he want so badly for Doppio to see?

He doesn't have an answer.

But he knows it isn't just one thing. There is no singular memory that will save him. The pain is the result of years of built-up frustration he wants to release at once, and plunging them both into the depths of it seemed as good a way as any to rid himself of it all.]

But to stay with me, you must persevere. This will all be meaningless if I guide you every step of the way. Think, Doppio. This town. Our dreams. Do you remember any of it...?

[He can do this. He can do this, and he has to, because otherwise-- otherwise the Boss will keep being in pain, and he can't just tell him what to do, so he has to just know--

In the Boss's arms, Doppio's breathing eases, but only a little and not for long. It's as if the effort of trying to remember makes his lungs forget how to do their job in turn. This town... He remembers the town he passed through, on his way to the Costa. If he tries harder...

Don't some things look out of place? Aren't some stores in spots where there should be houses, or vice versa? He can't be sure. But he has to, because otherwise--

Another stranger appears just down the road. Doppio forces himself not only to glance, but to look.]

Ah! T-That's...!

[Not a stranger. He knows it can't be. But he can't tell if he remembers the priest from the photograph, or if he remembers him the way he's suddenly supposed to, the way the Boss needs him to remember. Did that man have a name? He had to have had a name, but it isn't coming to Doppio's mind. Does he need to look deeper? How?

Doppio makes a small, whimpering noise before he even notices the priest coming their way.]

[Diavolo's arms press closer at the whimpers. When he notices the priest, he tugs Doppio back half a step on gut instinct, feeling suddenly very small again. It's unnatural to see the man alive and well, like he'd never been reduced to a mangled heap bleeding out on a tile floor.

The priest walks slowly but purposefully, a smile wrinkling his face as though nothing in the world is wrong. How old would he be if he was alive today? Eighties, nineties? But he looks exactly the same as he does in memory. Seeing him is like seeing a ghost, and it chills Diavolo. He tenses, his fingers digging at Doppio's skin as that small part of him expects hatred and retribution, imagining the rest of his years rotting away in prison or worse.

But, of course, none of this is real, and there is nothing to fear. Diavolo is not helpless, not weak, and nothing here can hurt him. If he wanted to, he could walk out right now. But he survived their last meeting and he will do it again — more than that, he thrived afterward, more than anyone in this small town ever thought he could, at least until the day everything fell to pieces in his hands.

—He's close, now, that gentle smile brightening at the sight of ... not him. Of course not him, not the way he looks now, so very different from the way he did as a teenager. He must stand out in this small town. No, it's Doppio the priest looks at.]

[The Boss's tightening grip brings a strange kind of comfort; if their roles were inverted, Doppio thinks he'd be doing the same thing. It all makes a little more sense now - he hates this, but he's not alone. They both do, but neither of them are alone. Thank goodness.

Each step the priest takes offsets that comfort. He wants to back away, but the Boss is right behind him, and...

And something about this feels nauseatingly familiar.

The sensation is vague, so vague it's hardly there at all, but vague sensations and faint deja vus and distant familiarities compound, and all of them make him feel like he can't quite feel his limbs anymore. Now that he knows what he knows, he wonders if that's only wishful thinking.

The priest opens his mouth. He says, "I'm not angry with you."]

[Isn't something about this chillingly familiar? Memories are bleeding together. Nothing makes sense. This was all impulse, a half-formed idea, if even that. Wasn't it supposed to be different? Why is the priest walking towards them at all — why does he speak, why does he say that?

If it was him alone, he could handle this. But it's painfully clear that something is wrong with Doppio. His breathing is erratic, his movements anxious, his words strained, and the sum of it makes Diavolo ache. He's getting exactly the result he wanted, but it doesn't feel like the victory he expected.

Instead, it feels a little like guilt.]

Enough. Leave.

[He doesn't quite know how the room operates, he didn't pay enough attention to understand. All he can do is growl out a command to the priest and hope he obeys. It doesn't feel like enough. If he could do something more—

He doesn't feel it happen the way he should, no warm and familiar surge of energy beneath his skin, but King Crimson manifests at his subconscious call all the same, shielding them both from the memory.]

Edited (patch notes: improved by 5%) 2024-01-16 17:23 (UTC)

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epitaffio - 2024-01-17 23:32 (UTC) - Expand

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is it legal to just ... flash forward so suddenly. i cant do transitions

IT'S SO LEGAL i could have done it too....... thank u for doing the scary thing instead

cw: uh. fantasizing about murder?

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this tag is not landing where i wanted it to but i am sending it regardless

WE ARE BOTH DOING OUR BEST!!!

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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.