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Diavolo had decided at a young age not to believe in souls, as a matter of principle.
He didn’t like the idea of parts of himself that he couldn’t see and feel and break down into their components, didn’t like the idea that some fundamental core of his being was not actually of his own making and he had no interest in imagining an existence beyond mortality and what it might entail.
However, he had no other terminology to describe the distinct presences that occupied his body. Even before King Crimson had been drawn out of him he had been forced to begin reevaluating exactly what it meant to exist as a living thing, once that existence could not be defined as a single, flesh and blood machine.
His stand had been an inspiration, though. It was a real force that had material effects on the world around it, but could not be seen, heard or felt by those without their own gift. It had made him consider that there were methods of perception beyond pedestrian senses, and that if they were not tied to those organs they might be amenable to being turned inwards.
Once he had overcome that one, simple, flawed assumption, the trick of believing that his biological senses were the only ones he could access, the rest had only been a matter of refocusing. Now, when he could turn his gaze inwards on them as easily as closing his eyes, he wondered how he had ever missed it. His own existence, his own “soul” for lack of any better term, was hard to see in any real sense, since he was housed within it. But that wasn’t so much of a concern; he knew himself, after all. There had always been something else he had been looking for.
Doppio had not been difficult to find, because once he understood the boundaries of his own being he immediately and intuitively understood the other. It had been unsettling at first, to realise how close they were to each other, cramped together in the space of their… body? Their mind? Whatever part precisely it was, it had clearly not evolved for two. At first every exploration had been accompanied with a sort of reflexive shying away, trying to put non-existent space between them.
But of course, proximity was inevitable and not entirely unwelcome. Their ability to speak to each other, he was sure, would not survive much separation, nor the sharing of his stand. Still, in the same way that realising he was being watched would make the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, the knowledge that he was constantly pressed up against another person in possibly the most intimate way possible was deeply disconcerting.
So for a long time he would ignore it, turning away from the situation now that he had confirmed its existence. It was only over time that he realised the applications.
He couldn’t read Doppio’s mind, not even close, no matter how much he might sometimes wish it. But he could feel him, there, the way that thoughts and emotions shifted through him. He could cross-reference it with his actions and words, the physical reactions in their body. He began, without really ever sitting down and planning it, to catalogue him.
The extremes were easy. When Doppio was frightened his soul seemed to harden up, become rigid and brittle. Diavolo could tell how difficult it was going to be to get through to him by how uncomfortable it felt against him. When he was angry it pitched and spiked, sometimes so aggressive that he worried it was going to tear itself apart.
Those were the most obvious and potentially the most dangerous. He learned to feel them coming and interrupt with a call, what words and tones were most effective at settling them, softening and smoothing him down to something more manageable. The results were easy to confirm and it was gratifying to see disaster averted, to even be able to calm him down just enough that he would still defer to his orders.
The other emotions were more subtle. Tiredness made him foggier, less substantial. Comfort made him soft, relaxed, pliant in the immaterial space they shared and, he learned, pliant in attitude in turn. It took him a long time to recognise the quiet, slippery texture of him as melancholy; Doppio almost never admitted to feeling sad and it was troubling to learn how often he did and how well he could hide it.
He had an easy fix for that, though. Whenever he called, there was a sparking, staticky fuzziness that bubbled up in him, warm, and if there had ever been a question of the nature of it, the way it blossomed out into a smile whenever the feeling became too large to contain would give it away. Lots of things made Doppio happy. Nice views, quiet meals, small animals, finishing a task. But there was a particular flavour to the feeling when it came from their conversations.
Diavolo could remember the first time he had made some off-hand comment, some term of casual endearment, and felt the flurry of feeling up against him. It had been a little surprising but it quickly became a reflexive habit. Doppio was just easier to deal with when he was carefree and cheerful, his presence more pleasant to observe when he felt valued and grateful. Even in his lower or more agitated moods praise would reliably refocus him and, objectively, it wasn’t as if it was a bad thing. If Doppio’s more troublesome feelings could be evaded with a few kind comments, what was the harm of it?
Diavolo was only reading his emotional state, after all, and acting on the information. Not so different from what anyone else would do with voice and body language, only much more efficient. And he was using it to keep him as happy and productive as he could, which was what Doppio wanted. If sometimes he might lie in bed, fear or despondency keeping him awake, and Diavolo intervened to gently mould and prune him into something more comfortable, more content… That was a gift. Many people would beg to have someone there to hold them together, to keep them from ever slipping too far into darker thoughts.
Doppio was prepared to do anything, give anything, to protect him from any outside threat. He, in turn, could protect him from the inside. A life of hurt but never scarring, suffering but never trauma. A life that allowed him to maintain that innocence and devotion that made him so invaluable.
Was it even a form of restraint, if you never saw the strings?
And he wanted to be useful to him, after all. He told Doppio that he trusted him, but that wasn’t strictly true. He didn’t need to rely on something as fungible as trust. Not when he could feel the honesty in him firm and unyielding, and the twisting writhing of lies. At first he had asked him questions to determine one from the other, then to ensure his words were consistent, but sometimes it was only to reach out and feel the truth of them, steady and whole.
“Will you do this for me, Doppio?”
“Of course. You can count on me.”
And there it was, imprinted on his very being.
“Are you prepared to fight?”
“They look dangerous… but I won’t let them get away, Boss.”
It was there even under the fear, choking it out at the root.
“You understand the risks?”
“Yeah… I can do it, don’t worry.”
“Good. Then-”
“And you’ll be close by, right? If something goes wrong… You’ll be there?”
Shaking up against him in their cramped space, so close that he could almost believe he was reaching for him with intent. There were questions that Diavolo had never asked, not because he was afraid of the answers but because he was afraid of what it would be to feel them burning up against his very self.
Sometimes he wondered if it didn’t go both ways. Not deliberately, of course. Without conscious understanding of what they were Doppio could never perceive or manipulate their situation the way he could. But he had lived like this for his entire life, and on some level he might still be able to respond to the stimulus, the way a kidney could adjust in its filtering of the blood to suit its situation without any conscious instruction of the brain.
That was his theory, anyway. One he would often return to during the times when he might feel like the world was staring at him, or be furious at some foolish mistake he had overlooked, or think of everything he had to do, all the dangers and the never-ending trials stretching out before him even with all of his power. When he would notice, at those times, Doppio glancing more and more often at his phone, standing beside it for long, dawdling seconds or sometimes picking it up and cradling it in his hands as he went about his work or his life, waiting.
He had never been able to see and act on his own soul, had no understanding of the shapes and movements of his own thoughts and emotions. When he would call, finally, and hear Doppio’s voice respond to him, gentle and reassuring, he had no idea what that felt like from the outside of his self. Whether the warmth in Doppio’s voice was entirely of his own volition, or an unconscious reaction to something happening on a level he was only barely aware of. A sensation of someone reaching and grasping and pressing against him in a naked, inescapable honesty he would never quite be able to understand.