"How do you like my hand, Vergil? Feel good?" They, of course, knew the answer. "You got my hand soaked, so I would assume so." They ceased stroking him and brought their fingers up towards their face. Dribbles of clear fluid stretched from their forefinger to their thumb. Then, a look of puzzlement crossed their features. "Wasn't there something after this? I remember you said you wanted to feel my hand. But then...wasn't there something else?" As if to give him a hint, or to just torture him with the mere suggestion, the tip of their tongue lashed out to lap at the precum coating their fingertips.

                          It took their tongue lashing out at his own pre-come for him to realize what they had meant, and by then, he was no match. Wild eyes, surprised as they were aroused, could only watch this hint, his mind still a blank. By now, the small amount of sweat he always produced was on display, giving a luster to his skin that made it appear as if encased in a thin layer of frost. His cheeks, as deep as they were, grew hot, that same color trailing down his chest and up towards his ears, painting their tips as vibrant as the one that had just been in his lover's perfect hand.                          ❛ M . . . Mouth ? ❜ Was that the right answer to their question ? Vergil didn't know. He was fighting a demon, alright ; a demon that was threatening to burst forth and take what it wanted, no care for his lover's safety. Something feral, awakened by his rolling orgasms, desperate for stimulation. His rational mind, that fragile little thread that he was barely hanging to, knew better — Djahima was teasing him on purpose. They would give him everything he wished for, in time. But that impatience, that instinct, was on the verge of insanity.                            Or perhaps that was just Vergil himself. He no longer knew.                           Breathing heavily, he nodded, more sure of himself, but lingering on the image of Djahima tasting him so freely and without shame. A small portion of his rational mind wondered, will I ever be so bold ? ❛ Please. ❜                           The only two words he could manage in this state. Mouth. Please. A man beholden to his own desire, slowly losing all other instances of thought, yet just coherent enough to make it well and known that this is what he wanted. And by Sparda's Might, did he want it. He couldn't want it any more if he tried. The very thought of the warmth of Djahima's mouth around —                           Another spasm, though this time not so intense. Almost there, already, again. He would be embarrassed if he couldn't see how little they cared for this inexperience.

"I'd ask if I could have another taste to see if I can recognize the flavor but I feel that'd be rude of me." She smiles at him as an amused chuckle leaves her lips. "Speaking of thirst.... Are you thirsty? Whenever I heal I usually get incredibly parched. I have water, juice, coffee... Well maybe not coffee that'll only dehydrate you. But I do have tea as well."

                          Someone that wasn't Urizen. If it wasn't it, then . . .                           ❛ I have no name ; I am but two days old. ❜ The poem slipped from him as easy as water in a gentle river ; and there was no concealing the memories from him any longer. They flooded back in a wave of pain and nausea that had Vergil reaching for his temple, though his face remained unchanged and expressionless. For just a moment, he wasn't there at all, but slowly returned, turning to face her. There was an expression now, familiarity and fluster, his cheeks a gentle shade of dusty rose.                           ❛ Y—Yes, of, of course, how . . . how did I not see it before ? ❜                           He shook his head, as if in confusion, but it was contempt . . . for himself. How he hated his two halves, how he hated the way his demon reveled in the revelation ; how his humanity seemed to shy away from it, embarrassed for a reason he couldn't yet determine. Still, there were other, more pressing matters — reaching for Tania's hand was as easy as slowly moving forward, pulling it palm-upward to his thigh. From what little opening of his wound was left, he bore down hard with the butt of his own palm just beside it, sending a rather small spurt of his own crimson blood into her palm. He released her flesh as soon as he had, tapping his foot. That had hurt a little.                          ❛ You . . . You recognize the humanity, I believe. The . . . My humanity. A fickle thing. Sentimental. Empathetic. Frail. ❜                           Perhaps his descriptors would rouse her memory, fill in the gaps of his own. Vergil had no intention of revealing all he remembered . . . but it would help to have another. He was, at his core, incessantly hungry for knowledge. This would be a delight.

                          The only difference between the two was his interest. He listened quietly, too, enraptured by whatever it was Djahima had to say, both caught by the answers given and the voice that spoke them to existence. He didn't know it yet, wouldn't understand the feeling slowly clawing its way forth from somewhere he had once thought buried so deep it couldn't be found again, but he was already captured, sitting politely and easily into a net made of silk and golden hair. He didn't even notice as the sun gave way to evening, and the evening to night. He didn't realize that he was finally dry. All he seemed to care about was this new being, this . . . friend, he had found.                            And yet, despite it all, it would be weeks before he saw them again — not entirely out of being busy, but because of embarrassment. To have spoken the head off of a stranger, only offering his own story in bits and pieces, as asked, was a strange thing. And he had to hear it all from his dearest brother ; a mistake he would not yet make again. 

                          An unsure toast, of course, ended on a question, as if what he had said is not quite correct. His scowls. His hero ( one of only two — the other his Father ), would have held his head in shame. Somewhere, he just knows that William Blake is rolling in his grave at Vergil's complete inability to do something as simple as make a toast. And yet . . . he feels as if he has said exactly the right words, even if they were jumbled. He doesn't even notice the connotations of his latter words, too overcome with the idea that he is even toasting a drink with someone else to see anything but the inevitable.                           He brings his glass close enough that Nian can close the distance with hers, and awaits the familiar clink of glasses against one another. And he knows, despite never being included in one, that he will have to down the rest of his drink — as is tradition. Human tradition. Centuries of moments just like this, of toasting to any and all ; of language barriers, for just a single moment, being complete broken. Wars set aside. Friendships rooted. Such a small gesture, and yet it is the world.                           Or perhaps Vergil is simply so drunk that he is finding a tear-jerking moment in something insignificant. His jury is still out.                          ❛ There is . . . There is not much room here to exist, ❜ He starts, after a moment of quiet ; collecting himself and his thoughts, ❛ But you are free to find somewhere to relax, some—somewhere to sleep, if a form such as you even does so. My space is the balcony. You are free to use it. There . . . is a bed I do not oft sleep within ; I shall take this couch, as recompense. My bed is more comfortable. ❜                           That was, naturally, the next step, wasn't it ? Offering a guest somewhere more comfortable to rest their drunken head ? Or was there yet more celebrations and traditions to be had ? More conversation ? He did not know ; this was his first time being a social creature.

                         ❛ If I had had the ability to be there . . . I would have. Dante was right to insert himself into your life. Please never think otherwise. ❜ He tries to reassure his son, as best he can, but the words sound like a piss poor excuse again. He was well and in the trenches at that point, on the cusp of escaping M—of escaping Him. It would be another year before he did, and another several missing Nero at every chance in his quest to find the repaired Yamato. He was almost grateful to have missed him so many times, after all that had happened when he finally did. He'd never forgive himself for the carnage, neither Nero or Kyrie would have to worry about that. ❛ He does have a . . . unique way of showing his admiration and love, though. And do not let him try and fool you ; he has always been that way. Ever since we were children. It's good to know that not much has changed since. ❜                           But how much has changed you, Nero ? And how much of it my fault ? He can't help but think ; and though he wishes above all that he could speak the questions aloud, he remains quiet, shifting uncomfortably in place. Even here, even now, he cannot come to terms with the fact that there is living proof of his legacy sitting casually on a ferry seat just opposite of him, choosing to open up about his past — a past he was never truly a part of. It would always be in the background of his mind, and for a good while.                           ❛ Have you . . .  ❜ He instead tries to find a way to word the question in which it won't sound awkward, or perhaps too deep. ❛ Have you had enough time to process the life you've been . . . thrown into ? Not my existence, that will take years — no, decades, I fear — but . . . your life as a whole. Of finding that you were not fully human, and all that came after ? ❜                           A hell of a way to ask if Nero was truly alright, but then again, Vergil was never one for subtlety. 

Though there was one name she couldn't quite decipher.... V... Did he achieve what he was looking for?

                          But more important matters were at hand. She revealed hers, now, questioning him on his familiarity before he had a chance to do so first. Father's Might, she was a crafty one. He understood the feelings within him, obscured in pain, a little more. He had liked this part of Tania. There was something devilishly intriguing about it. Right. Well, there was no point in lying, was there ? After all, he had quite a recognizable visage, regardless of if she didn't yet recognized it herself.                           ❛ I am Vergil, Son of Sparda. Twin brother of the . . .  ❜ He paused, as if the next line to fall from his mouth was embarrassing, rather than prideful.  ❛ Twin brother of the Legendary Devil Hunter, Dante, you . . . may have heard of him. He protects this city. ❜                           And it certainly wasn't easy living in the shadow of your brother's fame. Especially when your own was infamy. He hoped that she wouldn't know his name instantly ; that perhaps she wouldn't know the legends or the rumors. Just one day, one, where he was not immediately ousted as an evil person ( though he knew, full well, he was ; nearly irredeemable in the eyes of many ).                          ❛ And you are Tania. A woman I recognize, and yet I do not. It seems that we both share a familiarity with one another. My . . . memory . . . disallows investigation. That is my apology. ❜                           His eyes wandered, of course, though not because of the blood she was all but drenched in. He was slightly uncomfortable now, unused to revealing so much so quickly. Vergil was not a man of many words, nor was he a man to wear his heart on his sleeve. And yet, all on his own, he seemed to open up to her ( however little, of course ) as if he had known her for far longer than this singular encounter would presume.