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When it all settles down, Diavolo buys a boat for Doppio.
It is this- Doppio’s hand in his. It is this- four eyes; two green, two amber- when there had been only two, and they’d switched between both. It’s Doppio’s heartbeat under his hand, it’s Doppio’s fingers laced with his. It’s silence when there had never been silence, and noise when there had never been noise. It’s tripping over one another as they both reached for the same cup, tried to sit in the same chair, their limbs scarcely used to having to occupy two separate spaces.
Once, Doppio and Diavolo had shared a heartbeat. Now they didn’t. It was a gift the way tricksters gave gifts: never certain whether its whimsical drawbacks made its power hardly worth it.
But that was the world they’d chosen: one where they could speak face to face. Diavolo and Doppio had once been two souls in one body; and while the loneliness of being only one was- at times- unbearable, Diavolo and Doppio had agreed on this: they wanted to be together. Given this chance, they found a way to be.
And so, Diavolo buys Doppio a boat.
He buys a house, too, something deeply modest near the beach. There are enough neighbors that the solitude isn’t suspicious or dangerous- headlights pass by, and Doppio tells Diavolo about the nice old woman that lives on the next lot, who gave him several tomatoes from her window box, and about the school bus that stops at the house on the other side and picks up two knobbly-kneed children who can’t be more than a year or two apart in age. It’s still fairly quiet- the lots are big enough, out here, that Diavolo can almost forget there are people around him, though he never truly does. The ocean drowns out any noise from cars, too, which keeps him less on edge. It roars pleasantly, and Doppio sometimes brings Diavolo out onto the boat with him, showing him this and that piece of equipment he’s repaired or salvaged for the cabin.
Money is no issue, and it never has been, so Doppio has no need to devote his vessel to fishing. Instead it’s something of an impromptu research vessel, though what Doppio researches depends entirely on his whims. Sometimes he excitedly tells Diavolo about the local species that live off of this part of the coast, and which of them have monitored populations. Sometimes he falls down a rabbit hole of sourcing and repairing some part for its own sake, like the busted radio he found in a pawn shop. Doppio had sprawled out on the cabin floor polishing rust from tiny parts for days while he worked on it, squinting at diagrams and swearing when he lost tiny screws. Now it sits gleaming in the ship, entirely unused- Doppio had no one to make radio contact with .
He dedicates a solid chunk of time to making the boat “home away from home”, carefully showing Diavolo plans for how they could live on it for weeks at a time, what would keep them fed and safe so they wouldn’t even need to return to land. He shows Diavolo cooking supplies excitedly, as though Diavolo has any clue what they’re used for. But he appreciates Doppio’s thorough explanations, as Doppio leads him through how they could simply sail out a ways until there was no one around and be truly, fully alone together for a while.
It’s a quiet life. Diavolo would have thought it beneath him, once. He would have considered it a mockery, an unworthy use of his power and time. He would have rather gone out in a rain of blood than have sat in some dingy little cabin eating canned soups heated over a portable burner.
With Doppio, it’s like heaven. Diavolo had never considered just how different things could be with someone else around to speak to.
Things aren’t perfect. They never could be, not with the two of them. Not with how they grew, and the ways they grew cramped inside one another; not with how they never learned to flex the muscles they thought of as belonging to their other .
Diavolo hated strangers, and he hated going outside far more. He shrunk from the light like a storybook vampire, burrowing further and further into the walls of their little house until he was hissing to Doppio that that car, there, the one with the black window tint- it’s suspicious, isn’t it? To hide cameras? How often have they driven past? They must be watching us, my Doppio-
Doppio would take Diavolo’s fingers from the blinds, then lead him into the kitchenette and ask Diavolo for information while he set the kettle on to boil. They were serious questions, not humoring him- Doppio asked how often he’d seen something suspicious, whether Diavolo had any patterns, whether Doppio had seen something that corroborated the facts. He had always taken the Boss’s orders very seriously, and these were orders as much as anything else.
It just so happened that most of the time, parsing out the details together usually revealed the truth to be much less threatening than first observed. And sometimes, even if Diavolo still spoke low- for fear of wiretapping, or recording devices stashed in the room- Doppio could convince him to sit, a cup of tea in his hands, and entertain Doppio for a while as Doppio’s questions grew more and more mundane- what car was that? Oh, the maroon one? Didn’t it blow a tire the other day? Yes, that’s right- hey, have we checked the air pressure on the boat’s life preservers? Ah, you’re right- then what about stocking the rations in the ship? Ah, then we should probably go grocery shopping. I think tonight I could make that chicken in the fridge, what do you think…?
By the end of his aimless meandering, Doppio would have a solid plan for something the Boss needed him to do- buy groceries, or fix that one shingle on the roof that was loose, or re-lay those paving stones that were wobbling in the back. Always something concrete, something he could do with his hands. A tactile way of wrapping safety around Diavolo, adding some warmth to the walls he was encased in.
They’d both feel better.
Though- well, it would be remiss to assume Doppio was so solid and stable as their house himself. Diavolo thought of Doppio as stronger than him, most often than not- Doppio was the one who endured the world , the lights and people and noises and terrors- but he, too, had moments where…
Well, Diavolo knows what they would have been, if the two of them were together . When they shared one heart and two hands, Doppio had needed to go away sometimes. To curl tight into something small and sleeping, deep within their mind, to wake no longer, to let Diavolo steer them. He’d retreat inside, begging to be small and soft and silent and slumber, and Diavolo would let him recede. He’d let Doppio descend into a dream, some gentle thing he’d built to go to when he couldn’t stand the world. And Diavolo would take care of things from there. Most often, it was when Doppio was in danger- when something locked him right between fight and flight at the epicenter of freeze - that he’d need Diavolo’s help. Sometimes it was enough to give him a phone call. Sometimes he had to lend King Crimson’s aid. Sometimes he, himself, would surface in full and finish whatever Doppio had left uncompleted in his wake.
But now…
Diavolo had hoped that, alone , Doppio would no longer need to hide. After all, he was here now at every moment- here to stay, to always stand beside and protect Doppio. If he was there, tangible and physical- was he not serving more of his purpose than he ever could from within?
But sometimes things still happened. Doppio would trip over a memory- i was alone, boss i was so alone, for the first time ever i was alone and you couldn’t call me- or he’d stumble and slice his hand on his kitchen knife and his eyes would snap onto the red of the blood. He’d grow afraid, for only a moment, and then he’d go-
Calm. Like he was sleepwalking, really. His eyes half-lidded, his gentle face soft and mousy without his usual animated expressions catching the sun in his eyes. His shoulders would slacken, his breath go slow, and Diavolo would watch his eyes tick around in a haze, observing things as though they were entirely new to him. Diavolo would quietly step in, then, his voice low and warm- my Doppio, mi caro, I’m here, that’s it- taking Doppio’s shoulders and leading him somewhere quiet and comfortable. The armchair Doppio liked, sometimes, or out onto the back landing so he could hear the ocean roar. Diavolo would sit and hold Doppio’s hands, rubbing one and then the other in a practiced motion- his thumb kneading into the center of Doppio’s palm, tracing down the soft meat of his thumb before moving back to the center- then down his index finger, knuckle to nail, in, and along each digit the same way. Doppio would sometimes curl his hands, once Diavolo finished with one, if he was slowly waking. If he wasn’t, Diavolo would simply keep repeating the motion, quietly holding Doppio’s hands until some clarity returned to his eyes.
Doppio would surface from the haze, eventually, and sometimes it was ugly. Sometimes it came with shouting or sobs or falling apart in Diavolo’s arms, gasping a stinging lungful of air as the pins and needles of whatever feeling he’d tried to escape settled in. Sometimes he was quiet and withdrawn for hours afterwards, communicating with Diavolo more through touch and pointing at things than with words. But sometimes he’d lean on Diavolo, and he’d find his way- stumblingly, haltingly- through explaining what went wrong. And Diavolo would listen, mostly, still kneading gently at Doppio’s hands.
Sometimes, worse still, they’d set one another off. Diavolo would hear something- some scratching, scraping, some murmuring voice- and he’d set to tearing the bedroom apart again, so terrified and frantic he’d become some feral thing, a mass of writhing serpents in his own skin. And Doppio would shout- his voice raised, sharp, frustrated, you know there’s nothing there- and he’d try to shout over Diavolo, and Diavolo’s voice would raise back, and Doppio would stare blank and wide-eyed at him until Diavolo could scarcely see him blink. And then Diavolo would crumble, writhing terror dissolving into lank tendrils of misery, and he’d wind up wrapping his arms around Doppio and the two of them would be lost there on the floor, laying and holding one another and incapable of moving. Doppio struggling to surface, and Diavolo too wretched to budge.
Those nights were slowly growing rarer, though Diavolo knew in some sinking part of his stomach they might never be gone completely. But the distance between these storms grew wider, and even when they happened, there were the small hours of the night when they’d hover between waking and sleep, still holding one another, and Doppio would speak gently. And Diavolo would, too, his voice barely more than a whisper. I’m sorry and I know it’s scary and I’d never hurt you ; I know and I want to do better and I’m not going anywhere . And I love you and I love you too .
There was something unspoken in those moments; a settling weight Diavolo knew both of them felt. That maybe there’d always be this; terror that danger waited in the wings, looming just out of their peripherals until Diavolo suffocated in it. And this ; times Doppio could no longer hold the weight of his own mind and disappeared into a fog that left him stumbling around like a marionette jerking on the ends of its strings.
But there was something else, something Diavolo hadn’t been able to place until Doppio spoke it, in the silence of one of those aftermaths. Doppio had tear tracks dried on his face; Diavolo held him close around the waist, tucking Doppio’s small frame against his and gently rubbing one of Doppio’s hands between his as though he were trying to return his circulation after frostbite.
“It’s not really as scary as it was,” Doppio admits, “knowing that you get this.”
Diavolo’s hoarse; his voice fails to come out properly his first attempt, and he has to swallow and try again, low and creaky- “Get what?”
“Being nuts.”
Diavolo’s voice tried to go deep and powerful, then, though it still rasped from earlier. “I will say it until the ground breaks under me, Doppio, you are not- you will never be - nuts is the foolish label of the meek flocks of dreadful shepherds; you are not nuts . You are not insane . You are not stupid- ”
“No, it’s-” Doppio actually laughed , a wet, choking little thing, one he immediately had to sniffle after, but a laugh all the same. “It’s not… negative, this time, I guess? Or I mean…”
Diavolo fell quiet, simply continuing to hold Doppio’s hand between his, slowly rubbing pins and needles from him. He waits for Doppio to stumble through his thoughts; words come slow and halting after both of them collapse to pieces like this.
“... I just mean.” He even laughs again, the sound shaking his ribs gently against Diavolo’s chest. “Anyone else- I’d have to. I don’t know, I’d have to sit there while they think what is wrong with this guy or is he stupid or- whatever. They’d have no idea what was… happening, and I’d be scared, and I’d be alone . And you’d… you’d come, and you’d save me, but when I came back… It was just me. I was always just me, and I had no way of saying what was going on inside me, because the only person who I trusted to try and tell… You already knew.”
“I’d always know,” Diavolo notes, and his tone is mournful. It’s harder, not feeling Doppio’s emotions in the tightness of his chest or the heat behind his eyes or the quickness of his pulse. It’s like learning an entirely new language, watching him from so far away.
“But, I don’t know.” Doppio shakes his head. “I thought… I thought we’d meet, and you’d be so perfect. You’d be powerful, and strong, and unwavering, and you’d never have a single problem ever-”
“Are you saying I’m not those things, my Doppio?” Diavolo asks, and his tone is such exaggerated, mocking offense that Doppio laughs again , tears spilling over as he does, his little frame shaking with the heavy gasping laughter.
“No! I mean- A little?” Doppio snorts, or sniffles- the sound is awful either way- and leans back against Diavolo. “You’re… you. You’re you, and sometimes you’re terrified, and sometimes things make you almost sick, like the sky being too wide outside or big crowds, and I know you need me then. And so I know you don’t…” Doppio shakes his head. “You are strong. And powerful. But I thought it was always going to be me- stupid Doppio- leaning on you- my perfect, divine Boss. And that one day you’d get sick of dragging around dead weight, and you’d get rid of me.” Doppio finally moves his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers before lacing them with Diavolo’s, winding their hands together and squeezing gently. “And that’s not true. You need help sometimes, too.”
Diavolo’s throat wants to burn with the admission- wants to recoil with pride- but Doppio has seen too much of him to ever allow that lie to slip. It’s true; Doppio has seen Diavolo flayed apart and brought lower than any person; anyone else who had seen this in Diavolo would not be allowed to live . They’d be destroyed for their audacity, for the sheer nerve to cast eyes upon the King without his crown.
…. Doppio, though. Doppio had once dragged him into the shower and turned on the water because Diavolo had failed to bathe in his 48-hour-stakeout. He’d brought both of them dinner and eaten it shut into the bedroom with Diavolo, when Diavolo had been too shaken by fear to emerge from bed. He’d made sure Diavolo didn’t claw himself to ribbons on his own nails in his frantic scratching.
He knew Diavolo to be as much flesh and blood and pain as Doppio himself. Only a man. Only a man who sometimes felt very, very afraid.
“I need you ,” he corrects, “sometimes.”
He can’t see Doppio’s face, but he can hear the smile in his voice anyways. “I need you too, Boss. Sometimes.”
Diavolo squeezes his hand tighter. “It’s an incredibly difficult task, being needed by me, my Doppio.”
Doppio squeezes back. “It’s okay. I think mine’s just as hard. It equalizes, you know. Two even ballasts on either side of the ship. Keeps it afloat.”
Diavolo’s throat threatens to stick, and his already rough and breaking voice has to grasp just that much more to form words. “My Doppio.”
“My Diavolo.”
They lay in silence another moment. Diavolo finally feels the gentle sigh work its way from his chest, the breath that had felt too tight to let go, lest it take with it all the shakes and sobs and screams locked into him. His body slowly ebbs back from tension, the sea retreating from the coast.
“My Doppio, my arm is incredibly asleep right now.”
Doppio laughs. He laughs, and he rolls away from Diavolo, struggling to sit up and then finally hunching over, laughing into his hands. And he turns and offers one to Diavolo, pulling him up from the floor, and Diavolo shakes his hand back and forth and hisses in pain at the pins and needles it sends spiking up his wrist. Doppio laughs at that, too, and Diavolo scowls at him, such a cartoonish portrait of malice that Doppio knows it’s not sincere for a single second, and Doppio rolls his eyes.
The two of them stand. Doppio pulls Diavolo into one more embrace, gentle, tucking his head against his chest and swaying there on both their feet for a moment.
“Let’s go to bed.”
Diavolo has never heard a better idea.