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"You smell... ripe." Kira chose the word carefully, trying to avoid anything that would set off his guest.
Diavolo, sprawled out on the floor, said nothing. He didn’t even look at him, and for a moment Kira thought he might be dead. Again. He had woken up to Diavolo laying on the living room floor, twisted at the middle like a relaxing cat. It had been all too easy to imagine him twisted even farther, spine snapped, blood bubbling up from his mouth from what was surely a variety of internal injuries. Splintered ribs. Ruptured organs. It was a little too much for Kira to deal with before his morning tea.
"When was the last time you had a bath?" He asked, stepping closer and wrinkling his nose at the stink of dried blood and stale sweat. He worried briefly about the smell sinking into the tatami somehow.
"I drowned about a week ago," Diavolo answered without opening his eyes. "If that counts." He stretched out before finally looking up at Kira. "As for soap..." He waved his hand noncommittally.
Kira frowned and stepped back as Diavolo sat up, trying to shake the mental image of the man gagging underwater, clawing at his throat as nature itself betrayed him. He bit his lip, thinking. Pushing the idea of bathing might have been in poor taste but it would certainly be an improvement over his current state.
"As long as you’re here, you may as well take advantage of the relative safety." He said, blowing on his tea and staring down at the other man. "A warm bath could do you some good." Diavolo glowered at him from his spot, dark eyes boring into him. He tossed his hair back and Kira frowned at how obviously greasy it was.
He stood slowly, gracefully, and gave Kira the distinct impression of someone trying to put himself back together. He moved upstairs without a word and Kira followed, picking up fresh towels from the laundry on his way.
---
Kira cracked the door of the bathroom, peeking in. Diavolo sat in the rapidly filling tub, watching the waterline closely. He looked worn out, sitting in silence with his knees against his chest like a child. Kira considered reprimanding him for not washing first, but his guest was foreign and he had suggested a bath. He supposed there would be time later to teach him proper bathing etiquette. The other man’s head jerked up at the sound of the door opening and his dark lips pulled into a snarl.
Kira raised his hand before Diavolo could speak. “I brought you a towel and a washcloth.” He entered the room, leaving the folded towel at one end of the bath and sat on the edge near Diavolo. Diavolo stared at him, mouth hanging slack, his face somewhere between surprise and anger. Kira handed him the washcloth and Diavolo took it, muttering what he assumed was a “thank you” in Italian.
“I don’t know how you manage to keep making your way back here,” he said softly, as his attention drifted to the pile of filthy clothes on the floor. He wondered how many times those pants had been soaked through with blood, how often the strange fishnet top had been sliced apart by blades, cut to match wounds on Diavolo's skin, and mostly, how often Diavolo had regretted what he wore on his last day truly alive.
“I don’t mind it though. You’re not bad company.” He turned back to Diavolo just as he dragged the washcloth down his face. His mascara ran, creating a torrent of exaggerated black tears, and beneath that, Kira noticed something else.
Freckles.
Diavolo was pale, even without his makeup, and the spray of darker spots across his nose and cheeks made him look younger, smaller. And weaker, Kira thought, as he reached out to him.
---
Kira’s touch was cool and gentle and Diavolo closed his eyes and sank into it, not shying away even when those hands drifted down and began to slowly tighten around his throat.