Archive of Our Own ^beta

In one of the desk’s drawers was a folder. Vergil pulled it out as Dante threw himself onto Vergil’s bed like the hulking mass of brother-bothering asshole he was; he was out of place in Vergil’s new room, a flash of red amongst the various calming shades of blue. The folder was plain white, with a printed piece of paper shoved into the front pocket. It read, Poems that seem accurate. At the bottom, hand written, said, from Kyrie, Nico, and Nero.

“What’s that?” Dante asked. 

Vergil opened it, skipping to some page in the middle. The poem had been annotated by Nero, with startlingly legible handwriting. Vergil had assumed his son would have similar handwriting to Dante’s neigh illegible chicken scratch; it seemed Nero’s was instead simple yet easily read, if a bit sloppy. “It’s poetry, brother.”

“You’re kidding me,” Dante said, snickering, “Nero made you a poetry collection. Fuck, that’s just like him. Read me one.”

“Will Power,” Vergil read, “by Henry Saul Zolinsky.

            I would rather grind my teeth to powder, 

            I would rather tread barefoot on thin, sharp stones,

            I would rather let the blood of my veins freeze to red ice,

            And the muscles of my legs stiffen to cold stone, 

                        Than be drawn by the warm breath

                        Of transient things.

            I would rather-

            But . . . yet . . . 

            I am being drawn . . . I am being drawn . . .

“I must admit,” Vergil said, snapping shut the binder, “that one was a good choice.”

“You’re telling me,” Dante said, his smile softer than it had been a moment ago. “Is it giving you the warm and fuzzies, yet?” 

“No,” Vergil lied, placing the binder on the desk, “though if you touch this, I will be forced to cut you down where you stand. Or lay, in this case.” It was Vergil’s, this poetry collection, collated for him by his own son, and his son’s loved ones. His and only his. A gift from them to Vergil alone. Dante could not have it.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Dante said easily. Vergil looked up to see him shrug. “Poetry’s not really my thing.”

“No,” Vergil said, approaching the bed. He considered shoving Dante to the floor, but sat next to him instead. Dante sat up to slump against him, bones seemingly disappearing from under his skin. Vergil allowed the contact, feeling strangely soft at the press of Dante’s head against his shoulder.

It really was an accurate poem.

--

Somewhere deep in the heart of Hell, Dante turned to Vergil with a half smile that Vergil knew better to trust.

“Let’s catalog differences,” Dante said cheerfully. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve played that,” Vergil said, trying to keep his voice light to hide the great gnawing void that made up the circumstances of the game. The rules he knew, but why had they played it? Who came up with it? When had they last played? The answers to those questions were long gone. 

“Yeah, and probably the first time without Mom,” Dante said. “I’ll go first. You’re too thin.” He pressed his hands deep into his own plush sides.

“Your lips are smaller,” Vergil said and squished his lips closer together with his fingers. 

“You don’t have stubble,” Dante said, running a hand along his own jaw. 

“Your hair is longer.” Vergil pulled a few strands of hair at the side of his head as far down as they would go.

“Your eyes blend into the whites.” Dante tugged his hair back to show his own pale blue eyes - he was right, actually, his eyes were just a touch darker than Vergil’s own. Vergil hadn’t actually noticed that.

“Your teeth are crooked.” Instead of indicating his teeth, Vergil bit his thumb at Dante and relished in the laugh that brought.

“You’ve got a line right here.” Dante drew a line between his eyebrows and furrowed his brows and wrinkled his nose.

“There are bags beneath your eyes.” Vergil pulled his own barely visible eyebags down with two gentle fingers. 

“Your face is too smooth!” Dante attempted and failed to pull back the skin of his face. 

“Your limbs are too long.” Vergil stretched his arms to the side, aware it made him look like a fool.

“Your joints are too big.” Dante mimed Vergil’s elbow growing two times in size.

“Your voice is too deep,” Vergil said, making his own deeper as he said it, surprising himself with how closely it matched his brother.

Dante didn’t laugh, though. If they were children, he would have. Dante had always loved stupid voices and Vergil doing one would only have made him more excited. Today (or tonight, one never knew when the sun was obscured by an illusory sky designed to freak out the beholder by any means possible), Dante just smiled in a way that made Vergil ache sympathetically.

“Yours is too high,” Dante said, but did not change his voice or raise his fingertips to his throat. 

Vergil wondered if Dante thought their voices would stay the same as they grew older. Cataloging differences. . . Vergil was starting to remember now. The first difference they noted, the first physical one, had understandably freaked them both out. It was terrifying; that the one person who was as much Vergil as Vergil was Dante changed without either of them noticing.

These days they could not be more different. They looked the same, sure, but not identical as they used to be. The one person who was supposed to look exactly like him did not and he didn’t know who or what to blame. 

The name of the game was accepting that they were not exactly identical and that that was ok. Dante had never been particularly good at it. He wanted everything to stay the same. Vergil had wanted to be different in as many ways as possible, to set himself apart from his brother, for all that he loved Dante. Some part of Vergil would always be decided by looking at what his brother was not and embodying that lack. 

Two halves of a whole. Both incomplete without the other. All bases covered.

“You lose, little brother,” Vergil said. And really, Dante should have done the ending, because he lost, but Vergil reached out to link an arm with Dante’s, discomfort squirming in his stomach. “For all our differences and all the ways we are the same. . .”

“We’re still us,” Dante finished quietly, head lowering and voice wavering ever so slightly, “we’ll always be us. No matter what.” 

--

The first meeting with Patty’s mother was. . . uneventful.

“Nina!” Dante said cheerfully as a blond woman in what Vergil had deemed ‘normal people clothing’ stepped into the office. “It’s been a million years!”

“Patty said you were back,” Nina said with a smile as she came over to hug Dante. What was it with Dante’s friends and hugging him? Vergil hated to be touched, personally. Though he supposed it was nice that Dante had people who cared. “Thought I’d come visit. How was Hell?”

“Bad,” Dante said with a shrug, “but nothing Verge and I couldn’t handle. Go sit down, I’ll warm you up some leftovers.”

“Not pizza, I hope,” Nina said.

“What else do I eat?” Dante said with a big lazy shrug as he wandered off.

To Vergil’s disappointment, Nina did not follow him. Instead, she came over to sit on the couch. Not the one next to Dante’s desk, which appeared to be a favorite amongst Dante’s people, but the one in front of the television and next to the armchair that Vergil had claimed for his own.

His own itty bitty section of the Devil May Cry office, that all the other demons avoided. His room was the only other space that belonged solely to him, even when muddled up with other scents. The humans didn’t sit here either for whatever reason; Vergil suspected it had been designed that way - so that there was a piece of no man’s land amongst the ever changing lines of demonic territory in the building for Vergil to lay claim to. A portion of their home offered freely.

Nina smiled at him, but made no move to get closer. “Hi. I’m Nina Lowell, Patty’s mom.”

“Hello,” Vergil said, because he might as well be polite to those he was getting saddled with. He turned his attention back to his book. Miss Lowell said nothing else until Dante arrived, and then they were off, talking about this and that.

He did not expect much more from Miss Lowell than that. 

--

Vergil sighed through his nose. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Dante asked. Vergil could’ve sworn he was dead asleep. 

“From Storm, by Hildeguard Flanner,” Vergil said, looking back down at the folder in his lap, 

            And there the monster rages and proclaims

            That he was god before all other gods were born

“Had I read the poem before we went to Hell, I could’ve said that directly to Mundus,” Vergil said, “can you imagine his face?” 

Dante laughed. He looked up from where he had his head cushioned on his arms. “Bro, I would pay good money to watch you say that to his face. Wanna go resurrect him just to see?”

He means that, Vergil thought, watching the way his brother immediately started preparing for a trip to hell. Double checking his weapons with subtle movements, glancing at his devil arms out the corners of his eyes. Taking stock, to fulfill some silly half thought Vergil had. He legitimately means that.

“I think you’ve humiliated him enough for one lifetime,” Vergil said, “though if the opportunity arises. . .”

“That asshole’s gonna get his, what, third death-by-Spardakin?” Dante said, laugh reemerging in the form of a giggle. 

“We’ll take Nero,” Vergil said, remembering the gift of his son’s assistance, “or maybe we can convince Michavelli into making Mundus into a devil arm for the boy. He doesn’t have one yet.”

“Dude, what would that even look like?” Dante said. He leaned back in his chair, squinted at the ceiling. “An extra eye in the back of Nero’s head? He can manifest big flaming rocks to throw at people? Or something?” 

“Something like that,” Vergil murmured. His brother continued, coming up with nonsensical devil arm ideas until Vergil was forced to stab him to shut him up.

--

Morgan could never be so straightforward as simply asking the question she wanted to ask. She spent the night with him, the both of them locked away in the depths of the Order Headquarters, pouring over books they weren’t supposed to be reading. 

Who are you really? Why are you running? Who’s hunting you?

Instead, she smiled, lopsided and deceptively pretty, and said, “are you sure you’ve got demon in you? You act more like my best friend, and I can guarantee she’s human.” 

“I will not assume my demon form in the middle of enemy territory,” Vergil answered absently, “they’ll be on us in minutes.”

“I’ll fight them off,” Morgan said and flexed an arm.

Vergil found his eyes rising from the page to watch. 

Morgan had removed the outer layers of her clothing (meaning her hooded cloak, the shin-length overdress, and four different petticoats) once they arrived and stashed them in a corner of the secret tunnel they’d used to get in. Something about hiding the fact one of the intruders was a girl, but really Vergil thought it was because she wanted to brag to someone about the size of her muscles, and who better than her fake-boyfriend? Workout equipment was expensive in Fortuna, but Morgan had gone the extra mile for whatever reason. It was well within her rights to brag, so Vergil honestly couldn’t fault her much.

Wearing only an undershirt and slacks, half lit by the flickering electric lights, Morgan really did look intimidating, when compared to the demure persona she adopted when they weren’t alone. 

“I’ll rely on you then,” Vergil said, smiled, “though I hope you know I’ll help.”

“Nah,” Morgan said smugly, doing a couple more poses that made Vergil equal parts nervous and amused, “I’ve got it.”

Over twenty long years later, Vergil recognized the stirrings of anxiety in his younger self for what they truly were. A quarter century too late.

--

“Devil May Cry,” Vergil said into the receiver of Dante’s rotary phone. It was, perhaps, the only piece of modern technology left in the world that Vergil felt he understood. Stuck in place, repeatedly twisted in circles, always subject to the folly of others. . .

“So I’ve got good news and bad news,” the voice was immediately recognizable as Nero, “which do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Vergil said, “though I have some news for you as well.”

“Oh, fuck yeah, I love news,” Nero said, “lay it on me.”

“I’ve remembered more about your mother,” Vergil said, staring across the empty shop, “she enjoyed working out. Her family was - while not rich, they weren’t particularly badly off. They imported home workout equipment for her because women weren’t allowed to train in public at the time. We joked that out of the two of us, I would be more likely to get jumped, even though I visibly carried the Yamato around.”

Nero laughed. Vergil found that he liked the sound of it. It didn’t sound like Dante’s - it sounded a little like Morgan’s. Or maybe Vergil was being too sentimental.

“I’ll let Kyrie know Mom was stacked, then,” Nero said, sounding like he was trying to contain the rest of his laughter.

“See that you do,” Vergil said, “I imagine it would be easier to track expensive imported equipment than medical records.”

“Hey, yeah, that’s a good point,” Nero said, “ we’ll see what comes up.”

“What news did you have?”

“Good news is that I’m getting a lot of jobs and that means more money,” Nero said.

“Meaning that there’s a surge in demon appearances,” Vergil said.

“At least let me break it to you myself,” Nero sighed, “there’s more anyways.”

Vergil hummed.

“The ones that can talk have been calling me little prince or princelet or shit like that,” Nero said, though it came out more like a question. “Normally they just make a reference to Sparda and leave it at that, but they’re calling me new things now. All of it’s royalty related, too. Don’t suppose that’s just Qliphoth runoff, is it?” 

“I’ll look into demon politics,” Vergil said, thinking about the way Mudnus’ flesh had caved around the Yamato, the way Dante’s laughter rang in his ears, “it’s better than sitting around and waiting for the phone.”

Nero snorted. “You’ve got that right. I’ll leave you to it, old man. Happy hunting.”

“You as well,” Vergil answered, and then the line cut. Vergil lowered the receiver to its holder, thinking. It wasn’t like he had any books about demonic politics. There had to be some on the market; it was as good a time as any to find out if his fingers were sticky enough for his plans.

--

The second meeting went worse, by Vergil’s standards. He returned from a job, covered in blood because Dante was a showy asshole, only to find Miss Lowell sitting on the couch again. And she was still there when Vergil returned from a shower, making small talk with a very smelly Dante.

“Go shower, imbecile,” Vergil hissed at his brother.

“Can’t I catch up with Nina?” Dante complained, but he got up and got moving almost immediately, so Vergil counted that as a win.

“Yeah,” Miss Lowell said with a little laugh, “I kept telling him to go up and change.”

Vergil made a harumphing noise he remembered his father making. It felt awkward in his mouth, but he had already committed to making the noise, so make it he did. Miss Lowell did not look at all put off by it. Just nodded a little.

Like last time, she didn’t say anything, but she sat quietly in Vergil’s space. Not really in his space, but next to it. On the very edge of it. Not quite out of reach yet. Like when Dante used to hold his finger a millimeter away from Vergil’s skin and yelled that they weren’t technically touching. Incredibly annoying. Vergil wanted her gone.

But she was Dante’s friend, and not his, so he could do nothing but sit and bear it.

--

Alone in his room, the folder of poetry open in front of him, the door locked and jammed so Dante couldn’t get in, Vergil allowed the tears to fall. 

He hadn’t really. . . he didn’t want to cry. Vergil was a grown ass adult and more importantly he wasn’t a crybaby like Dante was. It was just. . . 

“I’m here,” Vergil read off the page, trying not to let the tears smudge the ink or Nero’s hurried writing, “However wretchedly I feel, I feel.”

The words sparked another wave of anguish. Vergil bit his lip to keep it from reaching his baby brother’s ears.

Poetry was beautiful. 

It did not often reduce him to a confusing mess of emotion like it did now. But when it did, when the words resonated inside him and pulled his insides out of him to spill over his outsides, when they touched on some truth Vergil himself had not realized was inside him, those moments had always made him cry. He was kind of a bitch about it when he was young - obviously only famous, well-studied authors like Wordsworth and Shakespeare and Blake could move him.

But that was false. 

Of course it was Nero who showed him that. As always, his son looked at Vergil’s life and found simpler, easier paths to follow. 

An online search had shown that Rod McKuen was a queer poet who passed on recently. He was a singer, actor, and songwriter, had won awards for his music, and received much criticism for his allegedly kitschy poetry. And by no means would Vergil as a teenager have ever given this man a second look. 

And yet, accompanied by Nero’s sweet commentary - highlighted lines, drawing arrows from one phrase to the next, you told me you wanted to be protected and loved written beside “we need / to want and to be / wanted, too,” and no i felt this, esp. after Credo next to “we build on memory / and make them more” - Vergil took the time to read what Mr. McKuen said, took the time to read what all the poets in this folder said, and felt his heart rip apart at the thought of Nero seeing a poem and thinking of Vergil. 

Of his son, who had no reason to care, who was busy with his partners and children and job, who saw “It’s nice sometimes / to open up the heart a little / and let some hurt come in. / It proves you’re still alive” and wrote yeah we are, who had cherry picked fifty different poems by fifty different authors for a father who had never been there for him. . . 

Some of Nero’s poetry did not make him feel anything, but it was poems like these that made Vergil truly, just for a moment, feel like he was every inch as human as his family was. Demons did not feel grief like this. Devils never cried.

However wretchedly I feel, I feel.

--

“It isn’t an impossible plan.”

“Killing Mundus?”

“Yes. We could do it, together. We should do it.”

“As the kids say, I’m having war flashbacks to the Temen-ni-gru.”

“You always fuss about saving humanity, brother. If that is too vague of a motivator, then Nero, his wife, those grandchildren you mentioned earlier. Lady. Trish.”

“Kyrie’s his girlfriend, not his wife and also hey, I thought you would hate Trish.”

“I am ambivalent. That nightmare is long over.”

“I did kill Nightmare, that’s right. What were Griffon and Shadow, then?”

“Unimportant; kill Mundus with me.”

“Y’know, I did want to get back to the office eventually. How long’s this gonna take?”

“Not long.”

“And if he catches us?”

“If you alone could beat him at Mallet Island, then between the two of us, he should be no issue.”

“Can’t argue with that. And what do we do when we win?”

“Go back to the human world, I assume.”

“No, about Hell. What’re we gonna do about Hell? Aren’t you the king of it, or some shit? ‘Cuz of the Qliphoth fruit?”

“He’s already inactive as king, it will not change much to kill him.”

“I think it might. . . I mean, if we’re demon royalty, aren’t they gonna start hunting us again? Or the others? I couldn’t give less of a shit about Hell, but it’s - there’s gonna be fallout. I’m betting there already is.”

“Like I said, my plans are generally simple. We will get there when we get there. Let’s kill him first.”

“Yeah, I’m not too great at planning either. I’m sure Lady or someone will have something to say when we make it back. Not to mention Nero; he’s gonna beat your ass when we get back, you know that right?”

“I imagine he’ll be beating yours as well, for daring to leave him behind.”

“Nah, I let him win last time.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“I will, thanks.”

“Dante-”

--

“If you could kill him,” Morgan said at the dinner table like the terrible, horrible daughter she was, “the guy who’s chasing you, how’d you do it?”

“Morgan -” her mother started, sounding exasperated.

Morgan’s little brother (what had his name been?) laughed. 

“With a smile, I think,” Vergil said and took another prim, prissy bite of the honestly bland food Morgan’s mother had cooked. And it was Vergil, who regularly ate instant foods and demon flesh, saying that, so it had to mean something. 

Both of Morgan’s parents sighed. 

Morgan beamed at Vergil and something in him twisted.

--

“I don’t know why I was so afraid,” Vergil said lightly, looking at the last dregs of Mundus clinging to his pitiful life. “Clearly, you were not worth the dirt beneath my shoes.”

“I am your master,” Mundus rasped.

“No,” Vergil said, and smiled down at him pleasantly, “I have no master. I am myself, human and demon and free. And I am more powerful than you will ever be.”

Mundus’ skin, or whatever passed for it, squelshed beneath the Yamato. Mundus died uneventfully. A footnote in Vergil’s life. Satisfyingly banal.

Vergil turned to his laughing, bloodstained brother. “That was cathartic. I don’t suppose you have any other childhood enemies you would like to kill before returning to the human world. . . ?”

“Got a taste for murder, huh?” Dante laughed. His arm was warm when he threw it around Vergil’s shoulders. “I bet Hell’s got a queen somewhere. Let’s find her.” 

--

The third time, Vergil closed his book with a snap and turned to glare at Miss Lowell. Dante was out on a job, which Vergil knew she knew, but she still came and sat down next to him with a book she pulled out of her purse. Miss Lowell looked up at him, an eyebrow raised.

“What are you doing?” Vergil asked.

Miss Lowell blinked. “I’m reading?”

“Don’t play stupid,” Vergil said, “did Dante put you up to this?”

“Nero did, actually,” Miss Lowell said with a shrug. She closed her own book - Vergil caught sight at the very obvious cover of a bodice ripper novel. “Patty, too. They thought because I’m the one who hangs out with Dante the least, I’d be the best bet for befriending you.”

“You want to befriend me?” Vergil echoed, unimpressed.

“I don’t care either way,” Miss Lowell said, “but we’ve got a similar history, apparently.”

Vergil eyed her.

To his complete lack of surprise, she went on to explain exactly what that was supposed to mean. “One of my ancestors sealed away the demon Abigail. His minions have been hunting me my whole life - it was why I left Patty at the orphanage after I had her.”

“Alan Lowell,” Vergil named him after a second, interested despite himself. He remembered reading about Abigail, while he researched his father’s legacy. There were many instances throughout history of devils being sealed, but Alan Lowell’s stood out because the demon had never been released. Or at least, not at the time of publication.

“Yes,” Miss Lowell said, not looking at all surprised that he remembered her ancestor’s name. “That’s him. Patty and I inherited his powers. Or at least, my family had his notes stored away. It took a while to find the vaults that held them, but now we can do the same.”

“I see,” Vergil said, drawing the rest of the parallels himself.

Hunted her whole life for the legacy of her family. A child left behind when she was a young woman, who she reunited with later in life. Vergil assumed, if she was as similar to him as she said she was, that she had been used by Abigail to come to full power, and Dante had probably saved her. Maybe Patty had even been involved. Had Miss Lowell ever been captured? Maybe not, if she was still here.

Scrambling for her ancestor’s power was a familiar tale as well. It seemed to have worked out well for her though.

Vergil was, in all honesty, unsettled.

It was bad enough that Dante could look at him and see all the maggots eating at Vergil’s brain, but to have this Nina Lowell do the same? That would be. . . uncomfortable to the point of Vergil wanting to return to Hell.

Not that he would. Not that he even could.

How did you survive? Vergil wanted to ask. How did you keep track of the hunters? What was your favorite go to meal? Your vice of choice? Did you break into other people’s houses? Where did you stash your food in your house when it was all over? Did you ever grow out of it? When does the paranoia go away? When did you start feeling safe again?

“I see,” Vergil said instead and cracked his book back open. He stared at the words without really seeing them.

“Thank you for letting me stick around,” Nina said.

Vergil hummed in acknowledgement. Nina returned to her book.

--

“How’s the search going?” Nero asked. “Also hypothetically if my devil bringer - or uh, y’know the demonic arm you pulled off? Hypothetically, if it used to be really bright and glowy but the fingers went from glowing claws to just normal claws, what would that mean?”

“. . . I imagine that your claws changing over time might have something to do with you growing up,” Vergil answered with a raised eyebrow. Dante, sitting on the nearby couch, snorted and peeked over his magazine with a shit-eating grin.

“I mean, obviously, but like in demon terms, is it significant?” Nero said. “It just occurred to me the other day that I can actually ask about that kind of shit now. I mean, I can’t exactly ask Dante, and I assume you know how all this demon crap  works?”

“My and Dante's devil forms were different when we were younger as well,” Vergil said with a little nod. “Though if yours glowed that strongly, I assume it was meant to make your caretaker’s job easier. You can’t get into too much trouble if your parent can see your every move.”

“His fingers really did glow, though,” Dante said unhelpfully, “it was kinda funny.”

“Damn, even the demon blood knew I was a little shit,” Nero said at the same time. “I hoped it would be something cool. Ugh. Anyway, politics?”

“Dante and I cleared out the existing power structure,” Vergil said, “which makes the two of us the King of Hell, since they’ve never been able to tell us apart anyway. You are very clearly the son of one of us.”

“And how do I get them to stop?” Nero said. “They’re putting my family in danger.”  

That was a slightly harder question. Vergil considered that for a moment, looking over at his brother. 

“You’re kidding,” Nero muttered, “there’s no answer, right? Fuck me.”

“What’d he ask?” Dante asked, with that same cheerful, unhelpful smile on his face.

“How to stop them from attacking,” Vergil said.

Dante winced, just a bit. 

“Yes,” Vergil said, “that’s what I thought.” 

“I mean,” Dante said and looked around the room. His eyes landed on the devil arms displayed behind his table. “Maybe he needs one of those?”

Vergil looked behind himself at the weapons. They all glared back at him. 

“What did Dante say?” Nero asked.

“His theory is that you’re untested,” Vergil said, looking back at Dante. Dante avoided his gaze. “You have not publicly bested any powerful demon in the way Dante and I have. Our names are known - as much as they can be, when we live in our father’s shadow. Yours, on the other hand, is not.”

“I’ve beaten both of you,” Nero protested, “on top of the Qliphoth! Bottom of the Qliphoth? Who fucking knows.” 

“Only Dante and I were there to see it,” Vergil said, “you have not taken either of us as a devil arm and clearly have no intention of adding our power to your own by other means. You carry only human weapons and have yet to kill a demon lord outside the Qliphoth which, again, ran on my and Dante’s power.”

“Don’t implicate me in your stupid demon tree power schemes,” Dante said, pointing at him. 

“I’ve fought demon lords before,” Nero muttered, “Berial, that ugly fucking toad, Echidna. . .”

“Did you kill them?” 

Nero was quiet.

“I see,” Vergil said. 

“Fuck you,” Nero hissed, even though Vergil had not meant anything by the comment. 

Even more interestingly, Nero did not hang up. Vergil expected him to. 

“I can direct the next big job to you,” Vergil offered, “so you can get a chance at dealing with a demon Dante and I have nothing to do with.”

“Don’t bother,” Nero said with a sniff, “I’ve got a plan. See you, pa- uh, see you.” 

Then he hung up. Vergil lowered the receiver to its place on the rotary phone and looked at Dante. 

“Your nephew is doing something stupid,” Vergil reported.

Dante laughed. “He’s your son!”

“He’s your nephew when he’s following your example,” Vergil said and turned to head up the stairs. Would it be overbearing to travel to Fortuna? Really, he should let Nero handle it. It wasn’t like Nero hadn’t been able to protect himself before, right? 

From downstairs, he heard Dante say, “hey, Lucia? You got the time to swing by Fortuna? There’s a hellgate giving Nero trouble.”

. . . maybe Vergil would call and check in later.

--

The Yamato was broken.

Vergil scrambled for it, came away with a singular shard. He had no place to keep it, no section of himself that would be left untouched now that he had lost to Mundus.

He should not have jumped. 

He could no longer cower behind the crumbling castle of cards he called power. 

He should not have jumped.

There was only one part of his body that would be left alone, in order to keep him alive. There was only one small section that would, no matter what, remain untouched. And if he lost that part, he would already be dead, and it would no longer matter.

Dante had cut him in half. The wound had not had the time to heal before Mundus descended on him. He was seven again, organs spilling down his thighs. He was eighteen, vulnerable and terrified in a woman’s bed. He was nineteen, chest cavity gaping, wet red bathed rips expanding and contracting in open air, lungs audibly wheezing as they sucked air through the bleeding wounds.

Vergil’s back was to Mundus, hunched over the remains of his father’s blade. Vergil was crying, his lips had torn through with how hard he bit them to keep the sounds in.

Lowering himself to the soaked ground allowed Mundus’ blood to soak into his open chest, but it allowed him to angle towards his bared insides the single, needle-length sliver of the Yamato that he clung to. One breath, two, three, as Mundus laughed and drew closer behind him. 

Vergil took the sliver of the Yamato and embedded it into his pounding heart.

--

Nina offered Vergil her upside down hand, fingers closed around some small object. Vergil raised an eyebrow at her. He would’ve guessed that she had grown tired of the long hours spent reading while Patty and Dante made a mess in the kitchen, but Nina wasn’t even looking at him. Her eyes still moved across the page of yet another bodice ripper (this one had a werewolf on the cover), the speed and motion consistent with how her eyes traveled when she was truly absorbed in reading.

(Not that Vergil had watched her read.)

He pressed his palm to where her fingers pressed against her own palm. She released the object and retreated back into her own space, settling back into the couch.

The object was a small ring. It vaguely resembled the one he had seen Patty wore. It felt vaguely demonic, but in a way that Vergil had honestly never felt before. Some days it felt like Vergil had seen everything Hell had to offer, but this? This was new. Even holding it made his eyes feel weird and his head ache slightly.

He brought it closer to his face and turned it this way and that. It seemed like a normal ring. There were some runes carved into the inside that felt distinctly not-demonic and a white stone with three red dots in a familiar pattern.

Vergil slipped the ring onto his fingers despite that; three things happened all at once.

First, his vision shifted; the colors changed and everything seemed to suddenly come into focus.

Second, his headache got worse, though it eased the longer he wore the ring.

The third thing was that Dante stuck his head into the room to say something, and Vergil realized with abrupt clarity that Dante’s limbs weren’t actually too long, they were proportional, it’s just that Vergil hadn’t been able to see them before.

“Food’s almost ready,” Dante said, and from this distance Vergil could see every strand of hair and the way the shadows shifted through them. He could see that the wood walls were fake. Could see all the scratchmarks and dents in the weapons on the walls. “Verge, you good?”

Dante’s red jacket actually had a pattern sewn into it. Nina had light freckles. If Vergil looked through the glass panes on the door, he could see leaves on the few trees outside. 

“. . . did you turn Mundus into glasses?” Vergil said instead of answering the question.

“Yes?” Dante said. “You squint a lot, bro. Trish got the shit, but Nina put it all together. How many fingers am I holding up?”

Vergil ignored his brother’s inane question to look at Nina.

“Sorry if I overstepped,” Nina said.

“No,” Vergil said. Patty poked her head around Dante’s hulking form. “This is fine.”

“Alright,” Nina said. She lowered her book and turned to smile at her daughter. “Food’s up?”

I think I’ve already been drawn, Vergil thought nonsensically as Patty answered, they have already drawn me.

--

“Read me another one of Nero’s poems,” Dante said.

“I’m researching, Dante,” Vergil said.

“Research later,” Dante said, “entertain me now.”

“Entertain yourself.”

For a moment, that seemed to work. Then Dante opened his mouth again to further disturb Vergil from his work.

            Upon a lonely mountain, there lived two hermits who worshipped God

            and loved one another.

            Now these two hermits had one earthen bowl, and this was their only

            possession.

            One day an evil spirit entered into the heart of the older hermit

            and he came to the younger and said, “It is long that we have

            lived together.  The time has come for us to part.  Let us divide

            our possessions.”

            Then the younger hermit was saddened and he said, “It grieves

            me, Brother, that thou shouldst leave me.  But if thou must needs

            go, so be it,” and he brought the earthen bowl and gave it to him

            saying, “We cannot divide it, Brother, let it be thine.”

            Then the older hermit said, “Charity I will not accept.  I will

            take nothing but mine own.  It must be divided.”

            And the younger one said, “If the bowl be broken, of what use would

            it be to thee or to me?  If it be thy pleasure let us rather cast

            a lot.”

            But the older hermit said again, “I will have but justice and mine

            own, and I will not trust justice and mine own to vain chance.  The

            bowl must be divided.”

            Then the younger hermit could reason no further and he said, “If

            it be indeed thy will, and if even so thou wouldst have it let us

            now break the bowl.”

            But the face of the older hermit grew exceedingly dark, and he

            cried, “O thou cursed coward, thou wouldst not fight.”

“The Two Hermits by Kahlil Gibran,” Dante said, and raised an eyebrow at Vergil. “See? I can do the poetry thing too.”

“I can see that,” Vergil said, fond despite himself. Obviously Dante could do the poetry thing, even if it had never really been something he was interested in. “When did you memorize that?” 

“Couple months after Mallet,” Dante said with a shrug, “I don’t really remember where I saw it, but I thought it was. . .”

“Yes,” Vergil murmured, “it is.”

“Yeah,” Dante said. 

They were quiet.