Work Text:
With a quick flick of his wrist, Diavolo scraps the face of the puppet with the chisel shaking between his fingers. This one doesn’t even have a face before being subject to this punishment, skinned as if for sustainment, the wood shavings falling on the floor like torn skin.
Unfitting for the existence it was intended for.
Wrong. Rotten.
Just like the essence it should contain.
Diavolo throws it on the floor, and the unsecured arms roll away from the bust that now lays at the priest’s wooden and incomplete feet, another discarded being. The upteempth unsuitable face, a form that can’t fit the way Diavolo’s soul moves behind the confines of his body.
Diavolo’s fingers are still around the chisel, the other hand on the edge of the dingy vanity. No light turns on anymore, barely giving back a clear image with the thin coat of dust on it.
The darkness of the dusk doesn't aid his gaze focusing on the blurry mass of colors under the surface, opaque and grim. The dirty rays of the fleeting sunlight can barely filter through the blind’s cracks, giving the room a color more similar to brass than gold.
And just like the day about to end, Diavolo feels himself at the verge of nightfall; obscure and unknown, giving into the primordial fear of the uncharted. He remembers when he used to see his own eyes staring back, so familiar, taken for granted by a mind still lucid, serene.
Until something changed.
His vision shattered, right along where the crack on his mirror opened its own way over the once shiny surface, from one angle to the other.
Since then, Diavolo has never seen himself again. No matter how his hands dug his skin, how people around him accommodated his whims, there is nothing there that’s him. Even now, he moves his bony fingers over the gaunt face, pulling where it is loose and feeling it shift under his touch.
Bones hard as wood, the shape he has always touched, but the drape and paint over it feels heavy and arcane. It’s only bearable in that time, when darkness is most complete, when everyone is under the spell of slumber.
And his eyes, mirrors even more sincere, are nothing like he remembers. It’s someone else watching back, and that same someone managed to drag him into madness. Despite his fame, despite his name, Diavolo hasn’t shown himself in his role of a puppeteer in months, left inside that dirty room of his that once housed his genius.
He can’t be seen now, under the weight of the filth.
Not until he finds himself.
On the vanity, right under the dangling legs of two women, chiseled to morbose perfection and painted with the familiar tones of his family, ─ so close to who he is ─ there is a stash of wood. Diavolo doesn’t even design anymore, he seeks this unknown, morbose form that will give him tranquility.
It’s a blind search for something that will make him stop trembling at the mere sight of what he is now, of what is staring back every time he chases his identity. And it’s somewhere in the muscle memory in the depths of his brain, waiting to be found and to grant solace, rest.
His mind frantic, Diavolo takes one of the cylinders of selected wood, rolls it around, anything to ignore the stranger staring at him. But he can’t look away for long.
It’s there that he will find the answer he is seeking, after all, the only place where any clue could have been left.
The star can’t shine enough, but those green eyes reflect light anyway, give back an image fuzzy and ghastly. Of someone who shouldn’t be human, just pretending to wear Diavolo’s skin.
As his eyes roam the mystery, his chisel moves on the wood. It shapes the material, but Diavolo doesn’t know that it’s a firm hand that guides the tool in creating.
He doesn't feel his own fingers press the blade down, into tender sapwood.
Meticulous, undiscovered, incomprehensible; a method he has never used before and that he can’t replicate, that he can’t learn.
In a moment, the lively gaze of a young man peeks out of the wooden shield that contains it. It takes the spotlight, demanding attention with a mute voice of soft notes, irises bright and asking for color.
The way Diavolo’s fingers dip into the soft crevices of a youthful smile, as he styles the mysterious young man’s hair behind his big ears. A braid will suit him, is the only thought flashing in Diavolo’s mind, as his eyes strain to focus on the minute movements to style it correctly.
One lock over the other, the fine strands of hair still devoid of its proper color. The tools carve over the surface, the hair then splitting over the flat of the chisel; so pretty, so flowy.
For his modesty, Diavolo finds the sweater and covers his smooth skin. It’s tight around his shoulders and his waist, riding up to show his stomach ─ but it looks better like that, he says to Diavolo.
There is no reaction from the puppeteer, no jolt of surprise or shake of fear, and his body stays slumped, curved over the person taking shape between his fingers. That new voice that is speaking to him doesn’t sound threatening or uncanny for its origin, but it’s like a balm to all his worries.
It makes him wonder how he could live without something so familiar before.
It's low, but boyish, soft like the silver clouds passing under the rising pallor of heavenly light. The night is now clean, the moon reflecting the grandeur of the sun long gone ─ but still present, still plodding on to return once again while exploiting the moon in its stead.
The pearly flicker of the night is enough for Diavolo to focus even more, craving the next form on the body of the young man in his care. Slowly, as clouds pass, his lower body takes shape and so do the slim arms, legs, his mouth falls open to show the refined mechanism.
Diavolo has never worked as quickly, never in his career. All the puppets before were a process of meticulous and stilted research to find the best appearance for a character, but this young man under his gaze is spontaneous, lively under his ability.
Even when his brush dips into the paint, it’s a guided effort. The young man chooses the colors, and points to his tastes just like he does with the clothes ─ and swears he doesn’t need brand new ones, when Diavolo poses the question.
His hair falls like a rose cloud on his shoulders, his light olive skin contrasting with the cold colors of his clothes, his big and warm eyes stare back from the reflection of the mirror. Diavolo can still sense the gaze he dreads, but now there is something else to see.
The gentle hues of the sunrise reveal the struggle of the sun, scraping to break dawn a day more, and the light that radiates from that endeavor is enough to touch the side of the young man’s face.
Flat, brown eyes look up the length of the mirror, until they reach Diavolo’s gaze.
It’s like the spotlight that used to welcome him on the stage, and Diavolo rushes to scramble into the darkness.
His hands are gripping his old pants, his tattoos shifting with the tendons under his skin. He is tense after so much time away from prying eyes, a fear so true and visceral that becomes second nature.
But then, the young man raises his hand in a flash, a rough wave with his stiff wrist, and his delicate voice chirps, “Hello. You can call me Vinegar Doppio.”
Vinegar Doppio. Sweet little thing, eagerly sitting on the lap of a man who gave him chords to speak and joints to move. He doesn’t detest the limelight, but doesn’t bask in it. He isn’t here to shine and burn like the bright stars long gone, but to reflect the light of who sustains him.
When their eyes meet again, Diavolo’s gleaming eyes gift new light to Doppio’s warm ones.
It’s an instant feeling of relief washing over his body in a single, hot wave.
Doppio’s arm drops at his side, as Diavolo’s hand rests on his back. He doesn’t seem disturbed, just unmoving as Diavolo finds familiarity with him, as his creator gets used to the way his body moves and how it fits.
And it’s simply perfect.
Diavolo doesn’t even think about the beast on the other side of the mirror, so intent on hunching over his new ─ protégé, delegate, friend, favorite.
Doppio seems happy too, his feet dangling mindlessly and hitting Diavolo’s knee in that childish movement, just when the first rays of sun kiss his skin and welcomes him to his new life.
When they will come to knock on the door, when the murmur of life will pick up again behind the walls of that room, they will find it open and asking them to enter. They will see the faint outline of a man, and the bright reflection of the young man ready to greet them.
Diavolo wonders if he will be shy, but he will learn.
Diavolo will be sure he will make it big.