Anne 🗡️

Tonight he’s been here since exactly twelve o’clock, the moons long since crawled up in the sky, red analog reads three oh nine AM. For whatever reason, he’s decided to stay tonight. Is that a good thing? 

You can’t tell if it’s a good thing or not and your heart rate spikes up with each sound. You stare holes into dry-wall if only to avoid staring at him. 

The guest room really has become your home, courtesy of Nico, who’d brought your things up and made a big deal of decorating for you, muttering something about Fortunan hospitality and ‘this is what friends are for.’ — turns out she took over your lease and through grumbled complaints, has apparently waged a war against ‘Shadow’.

Posters are plastered up showcasing various bands and artists (hers, you realize, it’s the thought that counts.), your clothes are hung in the closet, sparse and muted pieces, just the essentials really. What little trinkets ‘livened up the place’ watch over you from shelves. 

It isn’t much. But it’s home. For now, at least.

When Nero initially wrangled you into Devil May Cry, you didn’t intend to stay long but a month turned into two and so on and so forth. Now with it nearing the middle of June, you’ve settled in with no choice but to grow used to forced interaction. 

You’ve even managed to come out more since then, though you can’t say much has really changed. 

The room is deathly silent and frigidly still. Your hand remains tucked under your pillow, the other rests besides your cheek. The bed feels impossibly large and sadly empty, your side tingles a bit, as though sensing his proximity. It clearly misses the man in the chair. 

You’d turn and ask him to join you if he’d listen, and if he didn’t still scare you. When nights are long like these, you can’t help but wonder if maybe there’s something wrong with you. 

How is it possible love found you in the strangest of places? In the oddest of bodies? 

Your list of lovers is embarrassingly small for twenty four, men stayed away from you and you from them. The one that finally slipped through and left his mark in your psyche, disastrous V. 

For some reason, you have always been labeled as ‘other’ in the eyes of suitors, only the strangest dared to tread into No Man’s Land. Was there something wrong with you?  Some small little flaw you’re unaware of, a grating laugh? A little too much where there should be little, less where there should be more?

Why couldn’t you attract a good, normal man? Why’d it have to be V?

You peel away at these thoughts little by little. It’s all you could really do so late at night. They pile up at your feet, reminiscent of a pathetic pile of petals and murmurs of; ‘he loves me, he loves me not’.

Love has always been your choice of drug, you’d scrabble for bits of it from the orphanages Matron and Mother Superior when she’d come by, you’d stuff your nose and search for it in letters and sentences if only to lap at a drop of it, but with all drugs there’s warnings; ‘Danger; Keep away’. 

Abuse them too much and you get addicted, too little and you’re left wondering if you should’ve done more, if one more hit would keep that itch away. You consider yourself trapped in vicious withdrawals, alone and shivering, burning from the inside out and sweating through your skin.

You’ve only garnered enough experience in the romance department to ascertain you are very, very prone to falling into delusion and not at all qualified for the job of lover. It makes sense why you were ignored and passed over the more you think of it, there is something wrong with you. Has to be. Who else would cling this hard to the first olive branch extended? 

The realization is corrosive and it’s not a new one. It’ll be forgotten by tomorrow. A hole punched in the wall and patched over with spackle. Good as new.

Blame Sanctus for preaching purity and chastity, blame the Order for forcing you into sisterhood, blame Nero, even, for keeping boys away simply because you were friends with the island's ‘weirdo’ and just as orphaned. 

That brings you to a new question, you've long accepted there’s no sleeping now nor anytime soon, might as well continue to analyze your life in the confessional box of the night. 

All roads lead, inevitably, to Vergil. Proud, glacial, Vergil.

Conversation didn’t come easy with him, mundanity irked him — he’s not used to it, you realize. It was blunt, awkward and seemed more as though he was curious about jarring and pinning a particularly evasive bug than anything else. 

In his eyes, which one would you be? A hundred legged and ugly? Worthy of being crushed? Or gem-winged and worthy of preservation?

Why do you even care, actually?

Nero’s forced conversations gave you crumbs to work with, days he spent talking at you gave you some information, helped you come to the conclusion Vergil was like that with everyone. Where Dante was easy going and eager for conversation, Vergil shied away from it, slunk away to some corner to brood and observe a life that excluded him not from cruelty, but because of his own adolescent idiocies.

You still can’t help but wonder if he’d been waiting on you to address the elephant in the room further during your most recent ‘chat’ — it can’t be called that, really. All that had happened was you caught him, disheveled and half-asleep, rummaging through the fridge late at night. 

“…What’re you doing?” You’d stopped in the doorway, sleep shirt hanging off your shoulder.

He’d frozen solid, an opossum who’d been caught by a pack of dogs and decided to faint. Every muscle locked up, either voluntarily or not, and you’d seen it. God. You’d gotten an eyeful of it, watched them ripple under his skin in waves.

You had to ignore the fact that Vergil apparently sleeps half naked, plaid sweatpants, no doubt hand-me downs from Dante, hung low on his hips clinging to the V-line for dear life because he, apparently, doesn’t believe in using the strings to secure them properly. His coat had gaped and hung open, slipped off his trap just in time to give you a peek of his biceps. 

It had clearly just been thrown on hastily for the pretense of ‘modesty’. It hid nothing.

He’d recovered and rose to his full-imposing length with something in his hand. The silver light of the fridge illuminated his abdomen and the barely there trail of hair leading down his tummy, if your eyes drifted further up, you’d see how toned his chest was, would’ve made your stomach churn if you stole a real glance. 

V was a flat board, every inch as smooth as polished marble, Vergil wasn’t. You should’ve looked away, you’d wanted to, instead you’d found yourself staring at something else other than the dips in his abdomen. 

The incisions on Vergil’s stomach stared back at you, raised skin side by side, aggressive and Yamato-shaped or maybe Rebellion-caused. 

Your face had twisted before you’d schooled your expression. What was that? Was he…? No. It didn’t make sense. Vergil wasn’t…Vergil was the type to throw himself into battle to deal with his feelings. No, no, it didn’t matter. Not right now at least. It was late and all you’d wanted was a snack. You filed them away, whatever Vergil had gone through in life to have a line of faded lines scored beneath his navel was not your concern at that moment. 

“I am…hungry.” Oh. You were too. The granola bar in his hand was comical. Vergil eats like a bird. 

“Oh.”

“Life is treating you better?” He’d asked, though he knew the answer. “You are faring well?”

“No.” 

Vergil let no indication on whether he cared or not seep through. He’d simply nodded and sidestepped, holding the fridge door open for you, a gentleman before all else that night. Apparently. 

Really though. How were you even supposed to bring that up to him? To anyone? You’ve revisited that scenario over and over in your head, striking up a conversation with Vergil that is. Or even simply how to keep one going? You turn the question here and there, searching for any hint to solve the puzzle. 

Were you supposed to talk to him about his son? 

You can’t imagine talking to him about Nero, the boy whose life he missed out on. 

Was there anything you could say that wouldn’t remind him he’s a (unintentional) deadbeat? Without making him feel a tinge of guilt? Or whatever he could consider to be guilt. If he feels it at all. (Vergil isn’t that heartless, you know, however resentment still sits at the bottom of the lake of your heart, it’s sediment stirred up when you sink too deep.) 

Were you supposed to talk to him about The Man™️ sitting in Nero’s spot who hasn’t moved a single inch? Yeah. Probably that. You momentarily forgot V was still there until now and like that he’s dragging you back down under. So much for distracting yourself. 

You would be shocked if you turned to find it was just his corpse sitting there and not the dust he was turning into towards the end. At the very least there’d be something of him left, something to return to the dirt, to give you some semblance of closure. 

Because that is what you want. Closure. If you can’t have the man himself.

It’s pathetic, it’s human, and a part of you understands that you need to love yourself a little more than this. However, the rest just desperately wants a part of V back and the ghost in the corner is of no help.

If there had been a body for a funeral, you’d be the first to throw the dirt, the last to leave, and the only one to visit when yet another year came and went. If there had been nothing but dust, you’d keep him in a little box, perched on your shelf besides the singular polaroid taken. 

You’ve ascertained there was nothing left but Vergil. A derisive scoff leaves your lips. Whatever. Whatever. You should be happy. Nero has his dad, has family, has Kyrie, is happy. That’s what matters most. 

Doesn’t it? Vergil’s trying, and your grief is dampening the mood. 

You swallow down shards of glass, close your eyes to count sheep. Sleep, sleep, sleep. No more thinking. One jumps over the imaginary hurdle, and the rest of the herd follows, one bleats and the rest do too. Mob mentality, if everyone else is happy, you could be too.

The room is still terribly silent save for the white noise of the air conditioning that’s guttered up and kicked on again. You clear your throat free of nothing, take in a deep breath and let out a slow stuttered sigh. It does nothing to wave away the jitters of knowing he is still there. 

Inevitably. The question is posed; what exactly does Vergil know about your relationship with…himself? Mortification begins to flood your system, your fingers twitch and you’re painfully aware of figurative ice sliding down your spine. 

Does…he know about the nights spent indulging hedonistic urges? 

Embarrassing. Embarrassing if he does. Horrifying, actually. Does he also turn those memories over in his head? Inspect them from every angle? He has to. You’ve seen him half-naked and somewhere in the corners of his mind he’s seen you putting a contortionist to shame. 

You shove the thought away, you can barely look at Vergil now. How are you supposed to look at him if you run with the assumption that there’s a very real possibility he knows what you sound like in bed? 

Oh god. God no. No he doesn’t. He can’t remember that. V took those memories to the grave with him. He had to have, must’ve clutched at them the way he’d always cling to his book and cane and for your own sake Vergil doesn’t remember anything. 

The urge to curl up and tug at your hair is violently there again but— you can’t do that anymore. Instead your fingers curl and death grip the pillow. Kyrie’s orders, and as nice as she is, her mother-henning has only gotten more stricter, terrifying. 

“You have to eat, it’ll all go to waste if you don’t,” 

“C’mon, let’s go, up! up!” 

“I raise children that are more stubborn than you, I could raise you too.”

The lump beneath the blanket expands and falls erratically and at the very least, V knows you’re still alive. If he even cares. 

You’re convinced he really is just doing all this to take you down with him, if he could hold the blade, you’d let him. If only to escape the cycle of grief and the unshakable realization that Vergil, of all people, knows abstractly that you’re easy to please. 

And isn’t that a little romantic? In a morbid Shakespearean way, you suppose. Fitting for a man who was all prose and poetry. To take you with him to his grave. 

The darkness beneath your eyelids does nothing to make this better. It doesn’t make it go away, no, it only intensifies it. Realistically, you should’ve taken to drinking some sort of sleeping medicine. Dante has some down in the fridge, you last saw the blue bottle was only half empty. Sneaking down wouldn’t be an impossible task to do, you’ve come to learn which steps to avoid and what are the chances you run into Vergil again? 

You take another deep breath and shift beneath the covers, lips parting for a yawn. Maybe you don’t need it, actually. Any moment now and you’ll blessedly slip beneath—

“You’re ignoring me.” 

Or not. Or not. or not. or not.

The air in the room, already stale and freezing, seems to rival the arctic’s chill. Your heart sinks to your stomach, burns in the acids then skyrockets back home between your rib-cage, jack-hammers against bone. 

No. There is no way you heard that right. 

White stars explode behind your eyelids, the pressure making your brows twitch and tremble. Your throat constricts, phantom-fingers strangle, squeeze tighter and tighter. Or at least that’s what it feels like. 

That thing has his voice too. How is that possible? All these months he’s never spoken to you, never uttered a reply when you begged him to talk, never even let you see his face. So why now? Why now when you’re actually attempting to ignore him? To make him go away out of sheer boredom? 

Is he only speaking to lure you in? He has to be. 

“Beloved.” 

That playful lilt is in his voice again, the pet name that drops from his tongue, once sweet, now feels profaned. It’s taken that too. There’s a shift and creak of leather indicates he’s leaned forward. Intrigued, maybe. Intent on seeing how you react, as if he’s pinned you down to a corkboard and set a magnifying glass over you. 

If you were to peer over the blanket's edge, what would you see? Blankness where his face should be? 

You don’t want to open your eyes. You can’t. You rely on what you can hear. 

For a long while there’s nothing, just the sound of your blood rushing in your ears and the building settling, creaking and moaning from age. A single groan from old pipes is what you expected to hear from V if he ever actually spoke to you, instead you heard his voice. His. Impossibly soft and always amused. 

Are you asleep? You have to be. It’s the only time you ever heard his voice again. When did you fall asleep? Just now? Counting sheep actually worked? Then is this some dream? (Nightmare is more correct and apt. Dreams are pleasant, this is anything but. Your very own horror movie.) 

Then, you hear it. Leather creaks, either his pants or the seat again, however it's followed by a dreadful sound that makes you nauseous and want to scramble to the furthest corner and scream. A quiet shuffling you recognize as slow shambling footsteps.

He’s dragging this out. A small whimper catches in your throat, you could scream. You should scream. Nero would come in an instant, or Dante would. They’re only down the hall. Just one ear-piercing shriek and you wouldn’t be alone anymore. V would vanish.

…V would vanish. 

The realization stops you from screaming bloody murder until your throat goes raw. V would leave. He would. And whatever this is would slip through your fingers like sand. This, as horrifying as it may be, is progress. 

“You’re upset.” He’s pointing out the obvious, ignoring your distress, the way you’ve curled up into a tight little ball beneath the blanket, animal instinct. Protecting the softest parts of yourself in the midst of a predator. The belly, the chest, the heart.

“You’re scaring me.” You whisper weakly, small and wobbly. Hardly sounds like yourself. 

The closer he gets, the more you realize this is real and then there’s that damning scent again. Not coming from him, you know, but from the stupid shirt playing pillow case. Forced to breathe it in deeper with each inhale, self-inflicted, but what other choice do you have when you’re pressing your face against it to burrow away from him?

“You’re hurting yourself.” V’s hand gently rests on your shoulder, you flinch and fight the urge to shove yourself away, to put as much distance as you possibly could on a queen sized bed, uncaring if you’d eventually tumble off.

Unfortunately, it’s as if sleep-paralysis has settled over you, your brain screams for you to run yet your limbs are frozen. 

His hand moves down, the rings on his fingers steal the warmth from your skin, he peels the blanket away to invite his touch. Cold air kisses away at the lingering heat you used as a shield. You have no reply to that but a sob that escapes. You are hurting yourself. Deeply and gravely, but not mortally. 

Why is he doing this? 

“Stop,” A shudder leaves you as his fingers dance just above your elbow, they’re warm. So, very, warm. As his fingertips press in and trail up again, he maps skin intimately before dipping down and laying his palm flat against your shoulder blades.

Why is he so warm? 

You pray he stops but V was never one to listen to you, not when you’d tell him to take it easy and never did he listen in bed, never in grief and much less would he deign to listen to you now. They press against the tip top of your spine before they move again, upwards this time until they bury themselves in your hair, strands catch on his rings and he doesn’t have the decency to untangle them. 

The pull on your scalp screams ‘this is real.’ He gathers as much as he can and pulls your head back gently and insistently, paying no mind to the gasp and whimper you let out, part in protest and mostly in fear.

He maneuvers your head, forces you to turn and look at him. Really look at him. No hiding in the shadows anymore.

“Look at me,” V murmurs, his other hand cups the unearthed side of your face, he presses his thumb into the fat of your cheek urgently. “…please. Look.”

V’s plea gets you, he, in general, will always get you. Hook, line, and sinker. You force your eyes to open and in an instant you feel that sting.

It’s V standing over you, peering down at you, looking the same as he did the first day you’d seen him shambling into the van right behind Nero. 

You stare back up at him through rapidly watering eyes, tears blurring him into just a shape before clearing when they slip over your lash line and down your face. The sob you let out is guttural, frame-shaking and pathetic. His hand leaves your hair the instant he’s certain you won’t hide from him again, finds a new place on your body to call home. 

V sinks down to his knees and cradles the side of your face gently, his thumb strokes away your tears, not minding the fact you’re falling apart in front of him. He’s seen you like this for a year, after all. You’re sure he finds beauty in the morose. 

After staring at him and drinking in the sight of him, you find it in you to ask in between sniffles and sobs. “Why…why are you here?” 

Here encompasses the vast, the present and the past. 

V doesn’t bother to respond with anything of use. “Why do you think I'm here?” He tilts his head again and smirks, makes you feel dim, as if there’s something you’re not getting. 

“To torment me.” You blurt, leaning into his palm the instant he minutely pulls away. V seems to process your admission, that too, is no surprise. It does however bother him a bit.

“Is that what you believe I’m doing?” V shoots the question back. That’s one thing he was good at doing, circling and circling. 

“It’s what it feels like you’re doing.” You argue, your own fingers twitch where they’re curled tightly against your pillow. You correct yourself. “It is what you’re doing.” 

All these months of agony, of watching him and feeling him but never really having him…what else could that be? Torment in its purest form.

V clicks his tongue. His eyes drift down towards your hand, emerald green and so very lively. His hand leaves your face, fingers curl around your wrist. He finds some resistance, but not enough for it to truly mean anything, your palm cups his cheek, he holds your hand there and stares at you silently, black lashes drift shut and he sighs before nuzzling against your hand. 

Your eyes go wide. Your brain is still playing catch up with the fact that he’s real. You always thought that if you were to touch him, your fingers would phase right through him leaving you to feel stupid, that you’d feel nothing but ice if you could touch him. But no. He’s here again. Home again. Alive again. If only for a little while.

“Can you stay?”

V’s eyes open slowly. They meet and hold your gaze, undecipherable. V was always hard to read when he wanted to be, which was often, but they shut again and words murmured against your inner wrist nearly make you sob. 

“Of course.”