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It isn't until three months have passed that he begins to accept that this is becoming his new reality.
Three months since the felling of the Qliphoth. Three months since closing the hellgate to the human world.
Three months he has spent with Dante: at his side, at his back, opposed and aligned. Three months they have spent together, more time in its entirety than in the decades spanning since they were children. It is both a blessing and a curse - some days harder to tell between the two — and despite himself, Vergil finds himself... relaxing.
A strange sensation, that — especially when the majority of their time spent together consists of constant combat. They spar with each other, they fight the demons that come upon them, they turn their swords on one another once again; it had been a mystery to Nero, and reasonably so. He wouldn't expect the boy — despite being of their blood, his own son — to comprehend it, being as human as he is. Who else could truly understand but another son of Sparda, another whose demon blood runs so close to the surface as to be indistinguishable from the human?
As such, there can be no other option, not for them. And every time Dante laughs as their swords clash, every time Vergil relishes the burn in his muscles from fending off his brother's attack, he knows that they are of a kind. They are unique, in and of themselves. They find solace. They find peace.
They find home.
Or at least, Vergil does. He finds it in the clash of their blades, in their halting conversation, as they relearn how to simply be with each other. He finds home, finds calm, despite the knowledge he hasn't had a physical home in decades; yet as he and Dante spend more time together, the necessity of a physical space to call home seems less and less. It is especially true of Hell, where there can be nothing permanent, nothing truly safe. Nothing that screams home, but for the simple fact of Dante at his side.
When the understanding hit him, it had been expressed with a quiet inhale, eyes widening before darting to look at his brother. Lucky, then, that Dante had been asleep at the time; Vergil hasn't the slightest idea of how he would have explained it. He doesn't know that he could have.
So this is what had been missing all that time. Pity that it had taken so long so discover.
Still, despite the relative ease with which they cut their way through the Underworld, it becomes increasingly more apparent that Dante misses the human world. It had been easy enough to ignore at the beginning, with his constant griping about Hell lacking any good restaurants; now, after three months, his complaints are few and far between, a single lackluster jibe every week or so. He sees it in Dante's face, in the seconds before Dante realizes he's being watched: it's all too visible in the false grin he slaps onto his face, too close to the rictus he'd seen the man flash at Nero when he'd accompanied them as V.
One day, the victory goes to Vergil, and when he turns to rebuff his brother's insistence otherwise, he's met with nothing but a hand upon his shoulder and a quiet, "Good one, Verge," as Dante walks past.
He watches Dante walk away for a moment, as long as it takes for Dante to notice that they are no longer side by side, and makes up his mind then and there.
He may be comfortable with this becoming his reality, but it cannot become Dante's.
It takes another two weeks for an opportunity to present itself, where the energy feels right. The fight against the demons that besiege them this time is..rougher than he's used to, and while he hates that it's because of his own weakness, he will not foist the blame of it onto Dante's shoulders. They're both too spent afterward to continue the battle between the two of them, so instead, Vergil leads Dante off the vague suggestion of a path they'd been treading. Whether it's a kindness or just a simple lack of understanding, Dante doesn't question the sureness of his footing; instead, when they come upon a small meadow bisected by a river, water strangely clean despite the fact of its location, a pleased crowing echoes from the younger devil's throat.
"You been holding out on me, bro? Why haven't we wandered past this guy sooner?" He kneels by the edge of the water, cups some in his hands to splash across his face before drinking it down. "God, that's the stuff. I forgot what water tasted like for a few minutes there."
Vergil says nothing, instead watching as Dante tries to scrub the worst of the grime off his coat, before sitting beside him and doing the same. Washing demon ichor out of his hair drags it out of its coif, but he supposes he can allow it, for now.
Only a few minutes pass before a hand catches one of his, pulls it away from a particularly stubborn stain he's trying to remove. Vergil freezes, though only for a second, before allowing it and squeezing Dante's fingers as permission to continue; this is new between them, a delicate thing that he's still not quite sure how to handle but ever appreciative of the fact that Dante seems to be willing to allow him to learn. Dante squeezes his hand in return, before pulling it to his mouth to kiss at his fingertips.
"You okay?"
Ah. He doesn't want to answer, looks away toward the water instead. How to tell Dante why he'd faltered? How is he meant to explain? He remembers vividly cutting down one Angelo, and turning to come face to face with another; he remembers it opening its poor excuse for a mouth and emitting a sound that was neither scream nor battle cry; he remembers falling back into black armor so tight as to be suffocating, his own voice ripped away. Even now, his throat closes at the prospect of explaining it to his brother. Yet despite the strength of the urge now, he does not pull his hand away from Dante's.
Instead, he leans forward to press their foreheads together, close his eyes for just a moment. "Now I am."
There's a huff of breath against his lips, and he can feel Dante smiling. Foolish. What about that statement is funny? Vergil allows it for just a moment longer before an idea strikes him. He may not be able to explain things to his brother, but perhaps he can show him. He stands, managing to maneuver to his feet without letting go of Dante's hand, and tugs to get him to do the same.
"Come, Dante. I want to show you something."
This time, the laugh is audible, and Dante scoops both of their coats under an arm before he too stands. "Watch it, Vergil. Keep spoiling me like this and I'm gonna be unbearable."
"As if you aren't already," he quips, a hint of a smile on his face before he leads Dante across the river and away.
It takes about fifteen minutes of walking before he finds what he's looking for, and were anyone to ask, he'll never admit how relieved he is to find it just as he remembers. Dante's tread slows from where he's following along, and there's the quietest catch of breath, almost inaudible.
"I spent a great deal of time here," Vergil explains as he finally lets go of Dante's hand, "after Mundus' influence faded."
He takes a few steps forward, the grass waist-high now, and glances around. If anything, the field has only grown from the last time he occupied its space; now, the fragile silver grass so common of Hell stretches as far as he can see, and when he bends to pluck a flower, its stem immediately withers back into the ground. Vergil studies the petals for a moment, the rich violet color that seems to stain into his skin the longer he holds the bloom.
"It reminded me of home. Mother's garden. It wasn't nearly so overgrown as this, of course, but... It felt familiar."
It had felt as though the longer he searched through the grass, the better his chances of finding his way home would be. He'd known better then, and knows better now; still, as he considers the flower in his hand, he finds himself wondering the same thing. If he were to slice through the threads of this plane, would he step through the portal to find himself back in that garden, before everything had been stolen from him? From them?
Vergil stills as arms circle around his waist, a broad body pressed against his back as a head drops onto his shoulder. Idly, he remembers he hasn't fixed his hair, even as Dante's tickles the side of his neck, and he tilts his head to regard his brother.
"'m sorry," is muffled into the fabric of his vest, and Vergil frowns.
"Why?"
Dante's head whips up to look at him, a confused frown across his features and grief plain in his eyes. "What the hell do you mean, why? Pretty sure that's obvious."
With a sigh, Vergil extricates himself from Dante's arms, turns to face him properly. "I am not your fault, Dante." He takes Dante's chin in hand, ensures that his brother is looking him in the eye before freeing him and continuing, "My pride was my folly, and my burden to bear. You could no more help the position you were put in than I could help being a prideful fool. I know better, now."
"Is that right?"
"It is."
A moment passes as they watch each other, each waiting for the other to give; Dante is the first to break eye contact with a rueful laugh, his gaze dropping to the flowers around them. He plucks one, sniffs it before holding it out to Vergil to do the same. As he does, Dante leans in, moves the flower so that it becomes a barrier between the two of them as he presses a kiss to Vergil's lips. This, too, is new, and when Dante pulls back, drops the flower, Vergil can see just the slightest tint of purple painted across his lips. He's only allowed a moment to wonder if there is a matching smear across his own before Dante murmurs, "I lost you, Vergil. And then I killed you."
"Idiot."
Vergil's hand drops to grab Dante's collar, pull him in for a proper kiss just in time to silence his indignant squawk. It's still just a chaste thing, but it's effective in silencing his brother, and he takes a deep breath as he pulls back. "Did I not just say that it was my own fault? You didn't lose me, I was simply too prideful to stay. Neither did you kill me; the blame lies solely with Mundus. The only hand you had it that was releasing me — which I have yet to repay you for."
It's written across his face that Dante doesn't believe him. That's fine. Vergil spends a moment taking in the details of Dante's face, the bags under his eyes and the tired grooves set into his skin. His hand brushes across the stubble along his jaw, before he takes his coat from Dante's arm. Dante narrows his eyes, cocking his head just a little as he asks, "What are you planning?"
He shrugs into his coat, motions for Dante to do the same. "Perhaps it isn't as apparent for you; it would make sense, seeing as I've spent far more time with the Yamato than you." At the mention of the sword, Dante's eyes immediately drop to the blade. He freezes as Vergil pulls her from her sheath, and the panic is plain as it spreads across his face. "This place— the fabric that separates Hell from the human world is thinner here. I'm not sure how long I was here, but much of it was spent wondering: 'if I still had the Yamato, would I be freed of this place?'"
Vergil turns, channels his will into it as he slashes through the air, vaguely aware of Dante shouting his name and gripping onto his wrist. He looks down at that hand, then back at his brother's face.
This is a new expression, the first time he's seen it in its entirety: some mix of desperation and fear, echoes of the child Dante had once been before their house had burned down and everything had changed. His grip would bruise if Vergil were anything other than his twin, his voice rough. "Don't leave me again."
A deep breath, and he shifts so that they're once again hand in hand. "I'm not. I'm saying thank you, you buffoon."
He pulls Dante through the portal, and when they step back into reality, it takes a moment to blink the sunlight out of his eyes. Vergil ducks his head away, squints to see green grass instead of white and little red pips of color instead of violet. The air is fresher than the stagnant air of Hell, a gentle breeze stirring his coat. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear what sounds like waves, a constant crash and roar.
Dante's hand leaves his, and Vergil's head snaps up to watch his brother walk away. The sky is a bright, welcoming blue, wisps of cloud trailing across; the green grass comes to an abrupt stop at the edge of the apparent cliff they've emerged onto, and Dante wanders toward the edge without a word. Vergil, for once, finds himself unsure — is he meant to follow? Does Dante want to be alone? He looks away again, this time away from the cliff, and finds himself studying the poppies dotting the field around him. He plucks one, idly raising it to his nose to smell — is it different from its infernal counterpart? — before a body crashes into his, arms once again tight around him.
The sound that erupts out of him is entirely undignified as he topples over, and he swings an elbow into his brother's side.
"Dante! What are you doing!"
Vergil manages to roll onto his back, and finds himself trapped underneath his brother, strong arms caging him in. An unreadable expression sits on Dante's face this time, something Vergil has no idea how to interpret, and it dampens the petulant urge to stab his brother for tackling him like this. Dante stares down at him, his chest heaving, and it's almost inaudible over the sound of the waves crashing below as he asks, "You're really not gonna leave this time?"
His breath catches in his chest at the words. Vergil lifts a hand, and Dante leans into it as he cups his cheek. "I told you that I knew better, Dante. I meant that."
A breathy laugh bursts from Dante's chest, and the sound of it makes something in Vergil's soar. His brother drops his head, presses it to Vergil's sternum as he relaxes into laying on top of him. "You overdramatic bastard. You couldn't just tell me what you were going to do?"
I wasn't sure it would work, is his immediate response, but it's not what Dante needs to hear. That hand slides into Dante's hair, pulls him closer. "Why ruin the surprise?"
"Piss off."
There's no vitriol in the words, and so he doesn't take offense to them; they lay there together for just a few minutes, before Dante begins to extricate himself and extends a hand to help Vergil up. He smiles, and it feels like the first time in months he's seen a true smile on Dante's face, the first time since they chose to seal themselves away that he's been able to take a real breath.
"C'mon, bro. Let's go home."