When Dark Pit stares at the mirror, he doesn't see a smirk, a frown, a thin-lipped visage. He doesn't even see a reflection. He sees Pit.
What else, he thinks, is he supposed to see?
Maroon eyes that once danced challengingly, provokingly, appear on the glassy surface, raw, hollow. It's no longer a matter of which angel is superior; it's whether the reflection in the mirror is a reflection of a being, or a reflection of a reflection. Succumbing to life in Skyworld has bestowed upon him an easy, physical life; mentally, however, it was cruel. He never misses the silent beam in the Centurions' eyes whenever they are assigned to train with Pit, or the way the edge of their lips hang quietly whenever they are stuck with him. He never misses, during training, the fervor in their voices when addressing their captain, or the compulsory obedience they merely offer him.
"People are unsettled by what's different," Palutena posits, unhelpfully, his heart adds numbly. She must notice this, because she continues, her voice soft and mellow: "The Centurions are no exception. They've only ever seen one angel in their lifetime, and because of that, they likely assume all angels should resemble Pit in some way or another."
"Shouldn't they?" he asks, dully.
"Dark Pit," she murmurs, his former nickname dropped by her long ago—yet his current title doesn't lessen the bulk of his flinch. "The Centurions aren't made of the brightest material in the world. I think you're placing more worry on yourself than you really need to be concerned about."
Pit, conversely, is bewildered.
"Come here," he growls, catching the bone of Dark Pit's wrist and steering him to the mirror. They stand, adjacent, before the glass, close enough to count their eyelashes, the ripples in their wings, the individual hairs on their feathers. "Look closely," Pit prods, "and tell me what you see."
Dark Pit swallows, imperceptibly. "An angel and his copy."
Pit hums in mock-reflective manner. "I see an angel and an angel." His voice is soft. "I see the way the red-eyed one's hair falls but still manages to stay upright, unlike the blue-eyed one's, which sticks out in all directions. I see the differences in the lines of their faces, the slopes of their jaws, the shapes of their eyes." Pit spins him firmly by the shoulders so that they are face-to-face, looking away from the mirror; his eyes are fierce. He takes Dark Pit's upper arm, stiff in his grip, and says, "I see how much harder you've been working." Pit squeezes the muscle of his arm, as if to prove his point, until his eyes widen and he does a double-take, sputtering in astonishment: "Holy what—have you been… I mean, jeez, what a terrific way to find out I've been slacking off…"
In spite of everything, Dark Pit's eyes sway amusedly, and he finds himself turning his gaze, his body, his heart away from the mirror. As soon as he has Pit's attention, he looks at him with a scarlet flare, sharp and awake. He is fierce, but his words are soft and green.
He feels no tug of remorse when he gives Pit an earnest, open, "Thank you."
Because glass cannot tell him who he is. Because a reflection cannot tell him what flutters inside.
Because a mirror cannot tell him he is alive.