[ feels weird to move away right now, anyway. like it'd be breaking some sort of tension that's holding him together the, honestly, terrifying experience of stabbing another human being. ... Demon? Devil? It wasn't that simple, he still needs time to think on it. Apologising felt strange, and what feels even stranger
is having the other admit that he stole his shit just for attention. It makes something prickle in him, and emotion that he's sure doesn't fully belong to him. No, it belongs to him, Vergil--not Vittore. Like he's just been told something he'd never put the lines together for, some secret that has been eluding him for years that he's finally got an answer to.
He only took his things because he wouldn't pay attention to him. Always preferring to be alone with his books--a selfish child who didn't understand the concept of loneliness. His heart feels like it has a pit in it--a bad joke in Dante's next comment being that he'd be lonely without Him.
(it's probably true, isn't it. how the tables had turned, how dante had grown, so surrounded by people who care for him--and how lonely vergil had become as the years grew long, grew cold.)
He seems to come back to reality when Dante offers him that. Bloodied knife. Telling him not to apologise. A silent, breathless laugh escaping him as he feels, very suddenly, so very lost for words. As if he was missing some other way to communicate with the man. They always had a different way of communicating, didn't they? When the words wouldn't come?
...
Vergil grabs the knife and immediately marches over to the garbage bin, throwing it inside. ]
I am not using a knife that's been in your lung to cook with.
I will buy a new one, and we can try to forget that happened. [ he's never gonna forget it. one day they'll look back at this and laugh. probably. ]
...
And that shirt you used to wipe up the blood was Armani.
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... Demon? Devil? It wasn't that simple, he still needs time to think on it.
Apologising felt strange, and what feels even stranger
is having the other admit that he stole his shit just for attention. It makes something prickle in him, and emotion that he's sure doesn't fully belong to him. No, it belongs to him, Vergil--not Vittore. Like he's just been told something he'd never put the lines together for, some secret that has been eluding him for years that he's finally got an answer to.
He only took his things because he wouldn't pay attention to him. Always preferring to be alone with his books--a selfish child who didn't understand the concept of loneliness.
His heart feels like it has a pit in it--a bad joke in Dante's next comment being that he'd be lonely without Him.
(it's probably true, isn't it. how the tables had turned, how dante had grown, so surrounded by people who care for him--and how lonely vergil had become as the years grew long, grew cold.)
He seems to come back to reality when Dante offers him that. Bloodied knife. Telling him not to apologise. A silent, breathless laugh escaping him as he feels, very suddenly, so very lost for words.
As if he was missing some other way to communicate with the man. They always had a different way of communicating, didn't they? When the words wouldn't come?
...
Vergil grabs the knife and immediately marches over to the garbage bin, throwing it inside. ]
I am not using a knife that's been in your lung to cook with.
I will buy a new one, and we can try to forget that happened. [ he's never gonna forget it. one day they'll look back at this and laugh. probably. ]
...
And that shirt you used to wipe up the blood was Armani.