That tone, that soft, gentle tone that once upon a time would have made him scale the walls of Carthage themselves or perhaps launch a thousand ships in his name, but now did nothing more than lace his mind and soul with a layer of guilt. Oh, he could imagine the thoughts running through his little brother’s mind, cogs in a heavily rusted machine.
Still, it wouldn’t be completely out of his ability to reason, and perhaps the man Dante had become was owed more than a few words and a small handful of tuppence. The storm-weathered man he had become had surpassed anything he had ever imagined, could even have imagined.
Vergil was proud to see it, even if at the exact same time, his blood called for him to tear out Dante’s throat and abandon his body at the steps of Enoch, if such a thing would have been possible, but no doubt Dante’s healing was as good as his, better even, as Dante at least, had not been corrupted to the degree he had been.
Did Dante doubt his motives, words or the meaning behind them, perhaps even all three at the same time? Not that Vergil could blame him, any less than he could blame the sun for shining or a human from bleeding, and even if he could without reason find a way to blame Dante, would he? There really would be no point, Vergil was the one who’s body and aoul had been broken.
Though he reasoned, staring at the grey of his twin’s eyes, trying to gauge the emotion there and failing, Dante had most likely been broken for some time too, for at least 20 years or so, perhaps even longer still. Could Dante still recall the smell of the flames, burning like they were attempting to challenge the heavens themselves? Did Dante recall the stench of decay in the air and blood flooding the ground, mixing with mood and forming a quagmire?
No. The better question would be, did Dante even care? Never once had Dante acted like he remembered anything of their childhood before, “I don’t have a father,” he had said all that time ago, denying even the very blood that prevented them from joining the same torpor of death that their mother - and no doubt Father - now rested in.
“Dante…” Vergil’s voice turned quiet, losing the sting, the bite that had been but a passing scathe at his anger, now but a smoldering ruins somewhere deep inside him, ironic really. He wanted to go to him, he wanted to actually touch his twin, for the first time in - just how long had it been now - forever perhaps.
He doubted Dante would let him of course, gentle and careful was hardly their way, and even if they could, it was still a foreign language, one that he highly doubted either of them had learned, even though Dante had claimed that boy as Vergil’s own son.
“I..” He glanced away again, his brow furrowing as he thought about just what he wanted to say to Dante -I love you, I never meant to hurt you, make me whole -, and yet not finding the air in his lungs to even begin to form them. It was almost as if his tongue had turned to sand by some divine, age-old curse and he had yet to fine the one to break it, and yet there way no curse, just his own inability to be honest with even the literal other half of his own soul.
Had he meant to harm Dante? Yes. It was an easy question to answer, and he would have done so again if it meant keeping Dante alive. Awakening Dante’s sleeping demon had made his little brother strong, both in hellfire and in spirit. It suited him well, just as his crimson coat did.
Perhaps Vergil really was a coward. All of the words on his tongue, and an infinite number of ways to say them and yet unable to even begin forming a syllable to show Dante just what he meant to him. His hand gripping Yamato shook some more, his anger long since dried up, just like the river that had once fed the Gardens of Babylon, and just like them, he had wilted and faded in the strength of Dante’s passion.
How he wished he could make those passions turn into something else. A future that was perhaps locked to them, even if Vergil did try to tell him. Dante was too human, too much their mother’s child, had been raised with the human laws of sense, morality and taboo. That they were not fully human would make no difference, Dante would no doubt tell him to leave forever once more, and Vergil wished to avoid that possibility at all costs.
No, better he keep his own wishes and wants quiet and secret, buried deep inside himself -six foot deep, covered in clay - so that his little brother would never find out.
He grit his teeth, a crunching his eyes closed as his throat began to lose a growl, not directed at Dante but something internally, as he waged a war Dante wasn’t even aware of between the side that wanted Dante all to himself and the side that told him Dante would have already found someone to spend his life with.
Somehow, with a monumental force of will, Vergil opened his eyes again, and with a quick swipe of his tongue to wet his sandpaper lips, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t say what for, but Dante would understand anyway. He was always smarter than Vergil gave him credit for.
.. Dante could have fallen over. Cornflower blue eyes blinked at their mirrors. His mouth fell open, ever so slightly, lips parted in sheer disbelief. All tension left his square shoulders, and his hands, once clenched, loosened, and hung at his sides, open palmed.
Vergil had actually, truly said it.
“ .. I forgive you,” he whispered back. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “You mean it? If you really do, I forgive you. Verg .. “ Softer now. “Twin .. Bud, I .. “
.. Dante pulled in a deep breath.
“Come on,” he said, softly. He reached out to him, put a hand on his arm. “Let’s .. let’s get you inside? It’s cold out here, and you need a bath and something hot in ya .. “
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