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The whole time while Dante had been asleep, Vergil had known something wasn't quite right with him, him being of course Dante, though he had been unable to place a finger on just what was wrong. Dante himself had long since grown far too silent and still, even in his sleep, but the blood that had coated Dante had dried and stopped flowing so his brother had to be healing, right?
It became almost a ritual in itself, each day, to greet his too-still brother, to comb his fingers through Dante's hair and talk to him, telling him about his day, what demons had tried to take him down, and just how he, typically, had defeated them. It was soothing in a sense, to talk to Dante without being interrupted, and that perhaps should have been his first warning, or perhaps a sign that something wasn't quite right, as if the warning signs hadn't already been there.
Dante no longer smiled, no longer cracked jokes at his own expense or even Vergil's, no longer had a warm laugh that send waves of light flooding through Vergil, no longer did anything, just slept, but he ignored it, even so far as ignoring himself at times, doing his best to shrug off the little voice in his mind that told him Dante was gone. Dante wasn't dead, couldn't be dead.
His body still accepted Vergil so easily, so still, and growing colder, but soon began to warm up when Vergil fucked him for long enough, even if Dante never made any noise, of pain or pleasure, and so rarely moved outside of Vergil carrying him into the bathroom to wash him.
The first few times Vergil had tried to feed him, Dante had refused to swallow it without aid, and so it was easier to just pour soups of varying quality down his throat, messaging the column of flesh to assist him, occasionally tsking his tongue as little brother showed his unappreciation by spilling the food.
And no matter what soaps Vergil used to wash Dante, it was never enough to remove the smell or the dark blotches of dirt on Dante's skin, and even when he used the coldest water he could muster, magicking the taps colder, Dante still didn't wake.
No matter what he did, it never seemed to be enough, and at first, it had been funny, in an almost ironic way, that he was left to take care of Dante in this way, true to form, always the elder brother, the motherlike figure, the caretaker, even as he played the role of jilted lover to perfection.
Sometimes, he read to him, Dante's sleeping head pulled on his lap, hair scattering over his face before Vergil brushed it back, and returned to reading, leaving his free hand carding through Dante's greasy locks of hair, trying to at least stop Dante from growing bored, and still, not once did Dante move or flicker an eyelid in his sleep. He was still, still and silent, even when Vergil recited the most boring tales he could remember.
As if to make matters worse, the shop had started to smell too, the stench seeping into the solid materials and coating every breath he took in a fine layer of grave dirt, and no matter what he tried, the smell refused to dissipate. Perhaps Dante had been cursed by a witch or some kind of supernatural, and the longer he slept, the more the shop stunk, and not for want of trying on Vergil's part.
It became a bizarre sort of routine, and endless repeating trial, the monotonous day-to-day frivolous tasks, washing Dante, making sure Dante wore clean clothing, feeding Dante fluids of all kinds, including blood to try and aid him in his recovery, making sure Dante was comfy, but still, nothing worked. Dante remained blissfully still, and too, far too asleep.
It was easy at first, to ignore the voices that told him that Dante was dead and easier still to convince Dante's friends that Dante was just ill, recovering from a virus he had acquired while they were both still in the underworld. It had been easy to convince the human woman, Lady, (her name not quite sitting right in his mind for some reason he couldn't quite fathom), though, convincing the demon who had attempted to mimic their mother was harder, but even she was forced to acknowledge that it was possible, and the smell of Dante in the building said that he was at least present.
And so, they left it to him to protect and care for Dante, a job that he had been doing since they had returned to the human world, not that they trusted him, but even they saw the sense of Vergil taking care of his twin. It wasn't like it was a particularly hard job either, but it was one that still managed to fill him with pride.
And while Dante continued to be still and rested, he threw himself into researching, digging up old manuscripts and books on human illnesses, trying to find any illness that had similar symptoms to the ones Dante was experiencing, and still, for all his looking, found nothing.
And so it became natural to look deeper, search harder. He turned to darker books, ones of questionable natures and could have been bound in anything from normal cow skin to skin of perhaps higher demons, and even then, still nothing. And the more he searched, the more obscure knowledge he drank down, all in the effort to save his little brother, to cure him, the more the fever in him grew to try and find a way to heal Dante.
He found himself gravitating toward his darker nature once more, all in a bid to find the answers he sort after. Books that screeched when he opened them, an ancient and weathered volume that whispered dark secrets into a corner of his mind that hadn’t been awake since before their joined venture into the underworld, an old manual that formed a spectral-like face that attacked him when he opened it, before it submitted to his will, thick red tomes that produced blood when he touched them and even the oldest treaties that scorched his fingers and blinded his eyes for a time being held nothing, no clue and no sign of a way to bring Dante back to full health.
In a foolish attempt to help, an act of desperation that he would normally not take or try, he had even tried to kiss Dante, (A kiss from true love usually helped, right?) And even had placed a toad on Dante's mouth, all in the hopes of waking him up. All to no avail.
It became a race, in his own mind, to find the cure before Dante woke up, to prove that he could use his power for good, prove himself to his little brother, not that he still needed to do that mind, that hatchet long since dead and buried in the underworld, along with a blood-soaked field, gunk of countless dead demons they had slaughtered together and the ghost of memories that they had managed to broach, smoothing over decades of pain, hurt and loss.
He found himself reaching out to older contacts, buying artefacts and trinkets, to even a potion that claimed to be able to wake even the heaviest of sleepers, to potions and herbal remedies sold by witches in cute shops, fortune tellers or reputable natures, warlocks in far-flung cities of the human world, healers from all corners of the globe, hedgewitches found in flower fields, hermits in caves and drug creators found in dingy buildings and darker alleyways.
Each one failed, and the more that failed, the deeper his desire became to help Dante. His skin was now blistering and weathered, growing strange colours, but at least the cuts had closed and the blood he had spilt no longer coated the floor, so Dante had to be healing, right? Right.
The smell continued to grow in the shop too, much to his dismay and seemed to cling to his own clothing and Dante's too, no matter how much he attempted to wash it off or use air fresheners and even small bursts of air essentia to try and remove it.
Desperation became an obsession driving him onwards to greater causes, all in turn in an effort to find some reclusive answer, some forgotten way to help, and Dante the gun that drove him onwards, still seeking anything to help him. He found himself conjuring demons again, reaching out to those he had felled, those who had supported him and even those who had gloated over him as he forgot his own name, Vergil pushing aside his once prideful self, swallowing back the bitter words he wished to say to them, trying to find anything, even the smallest of signs, magic or trinket to bring Dante back to full health once more.
And still, even the strongest of magics that could have prevented a volcano from erupting or could have turned the tides of battles in ages long past didn't work. His own power lagging behind in the spells he attempted, his soul more than once draining to the point of exhaustion, all in the effort to try and help his little brother, who even now, slept on.
Once, just once, Vergil had caught himself in the mirror, his eyes dark and hagged, his cheeks growing gaunter and gaunter, his once clean and styled hair now more resembling his beloved twin than himself. It had shaken him to the core, and he resolved to not look into a mirror again after that, but still, even that event did nothing to sway him, he continued to search, refusing to give up, refusing to surrender. There had to be a way to help Dante. There was simply no other option.
And even as he poured himself into Dante's pliant body, panting and groaning over his comedown, his own release spilling out of Dante’s orifices, he refused to give in. If Dante's body still welcomed him and had begun to swell, there must be a way, because he would only swell if his body accepted life.
There was simply nothing else it could be.
The soul inside him screamed and raged, he longed to cry, beg and plead with Dante to wake up, but even as broken as he was becoming in his search, no matter how horse his voice became, trying to wake Dante, he didn't wake.
The women
On a few occasions, Vergil had caught sight of Nero through the filthy windows, but even the boy, used to the demonic stench as he was, refused to enter the building, and scowled at him through the windows, shaking his head and mouthing nonsense at him.
And even that small event became boring to him as he tried to find a cure, tracking down even the holiest of items and most cursed of relics, all in the hopes they could help his brother.
And even then, nothing did, no matter what language he chanted long-forgotten spells and recreated ancient rituals, drawing lines in materials from the most mundane all the way to the obscure and beyond, filling the small building with spirits of the damned and light that could have made even the holiest of priests weep with joy and fear, clutching at their crucifixes and beads, or trying to exorcise Vergil.
Nothing made even the slightest of difference. Dante didn't move, still trapped in whatever realm his mind had been taken to.
There had to be a way to cure him, to awaken him. There had to be. There had to be. There had to...
Sleepless nights and endless days searching, weeks spent scouring tomes in languages that even the most ancient of humans wouldn't be able to decipher until his fingers were stained with ink and his mind played images of rituals he could try on repeat, a kind of 8-track that haunted even his waking hours, all in the effort to help Dante. Not even the unholy was safe from his hunger, his urge to try.
The days all began to bleed into each other, it no longer mattered what colour the sky was and what day it said, it no longer mattered what weather it was or what temperature, or even if it was too dark to see. It all began to merge into one.
One long run into the dark, clutching Yamato behind him as he continued to search, even at one point declining a chair in a quaint, abandoned monastery, because he refused to be tied down and kept away from Dante.
The small library in the shop had long since been filled with everything he could find and more, and the evidence of his search split across rooms now, and still, it wasn't enough, and still, Dante was asleep, caught in that waking dream in some far off plane, trapped out of sight of Vergil.
It wasn't right. None of it was.
And perhaps, that should have been the sign he needed to stop, the demonic voices in his head long since silenced and weeping, trying to regrow a half of itself it knew wouldn't regrow, and one that Vergil, if he had been honest with himself, had known since the start.
But still, he searched, looking for ancient ruins in even the demon works, places that even the eldest of demons were scared to walk or even speak their name, searching through illusions that called his name, buildings that could have been a fairytale in their own rights, places that made his own blood hum and sing, and even, once, a small cottage where an elderly lady with grey hair stared at him, beckoning him with a crooked finger, (he'd quickly fled the scene, his heart pounding in his chest at that one though he was still, to this day, unsure why), looking for even the smallest of plant, forgotten book, paper or item that could have aided him in his quest.
At some point, he even found himself begging to whatever higher being he didn't believe in, pleading and praying that they would be merciful to him, let Dante wake up, or help him find something, anything really.
And still, nothing worked. No matter how many tears and sleepless hours were spent searching by candlelight, mirage light or even sunlight, there was nothing.
It was on his return from one such venture, that Vergil found Nero, crouching inside the small, cluttered shop, trying not to bring whatever the contents of his stomach was, up on the flooring. Vergil had paused for a moment, looking his son over before pushing past him, checking on Dante, who even now, slept on.
Somehow, Nero managed to pull himself upright, using an arm, covered in a thick coat that spoke volumes of it being winter, over his nose and mouth, still looking green around the gills, and, even with a covered face, still managed to scowl in Vergil's direction.
Vergil himself refused to be bothered by it, plastering on his typical aloof style, ignoring the boy to focus on his task of preparing yet another ritual, this time with a fruit that only grew in one part of the demonic world, flowered for but an hour before dying and not blooming for several thousand years, he had been lucky to find it and had bartered a trinket that the demoness seemed to convert for it. A worthwhile bargain in his mind.
With quick and practised movements, the fruit was soon fragmented, the juice covering the floor, and Vergil moved to sit inside it, pulling the still sleeping Dante onto his lap, Nero still watching on.
It didn't take long until Nero, finally growing irate at the idea of his own father ignoring him, interrupted his spellcasting and tear Dante off of his lap, Dante's limp head rolling around on his shoulders as he was tossed, and Nero, pouncing on Vergil's form, screaming and yelling obscenities at him.
It was a droll affair, and even as Nero continued to scream at him, Vergil stood and pulled Dante's body back onto him, checking his head for injury. There was no blood and no sign of any damage, so Nero was at least spared from Vergil's anger.
He said as much and watched with bored eyes as Nero's face grew red, as the stupid boy summoned his mirage wings, as the boy grabbed at Dante's arms, aiming to pull Dante off of him once more.
Enough was enough. Vergil wasn't in the mood to play such childish games with his son, hadn't been in the mood for anything of that nature since his self-appointed quest had begun, and he quickly covered what he could of Dante's body with his own.
And still, the child refused to leave, tugging at Dante's arm, attempting to move him from Vergil's grasp and not managing it, growing more and more irate with each pull.
It grew to the point where Vergil's anger had had enough. It was shockingly easy to summon his tail and send it soaring, drilling into the boy's body with quick and effective slashes, drawing blood and pushing Nero away from Dante's body.
Or at least.
His brain seemed to slow down for an instance, unwavering clarity and unwillingness to surrender warring at both sides of him, his mind not understanding the signals his eyes sent it, watching the scene, trying to understand what he was seeing and not quite managing to get from a to z without stopping at every other letter on the list first.
Dante's body, limp, not bleeding, hung in Nero's grasp. Lifeless, still.
And missing an arm.