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Parties were always an enjoyable thing to most people, you included on occasion, but it really depended on your mood, as you’re sure it does for others. However, parties, social gatherings, get togethers, that sort of thing, they were never something you would attend to make yourself feel better or lighten your mood, but you don’t hate them, you just hate when alcohol is involved.
Not because you have some sob story or trauma with alcoholic parents or because you’re recovering, you actually rarely drink in general. The reason? Vomit. No, not because beer tastes like puke, but because of your crippling phobia of throwing up.
It’s stupid. You know it’s a stupid thing to be so scared about, but it lingered throughout your childhood, to your teenage years, and now even in adulthood, this fear still clings to you like a skunks spray, and no amount of tomato juice will rid it.
People may think it's “just a bit of anxiety”, and that you should “get over it” because throwing up is a natural bodily function and is actually good for you since it’s getting rid of toxins, blah blah blah, all that bullshit. You’ve heard it all before, it is exhausting to hear the same things regurgitated from every person you share your fears with. You understand it is an irrational fear, and that people are just trying to offer comfort or rationalize things, but it only makes you feel belittled, as if your struggle isn’t a struggle since it’s not rational.
Yet your heart still pounds in your chest every time you get a stomachache, or when someone mentions being sick after you’ve recently been in close contact with them. Your heart races when someone around you coughs a little too hard or gets up for the bathroom a second too quickly.
This phobia has infiltrated your life in almost every way a phobia can. In your teen years, you struggled with ARFID (Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder), an eating disorder rooted from your intense anxiety of being sick. You managed to overcome it through time and effort, but you tend to fall back into old habits if the people around you have recently had a stomach-bug, often finding yourself eating foods you trust and only eating those until you are absolutely certain you won’t get sick.
And if you do get sick? It feels like all your previous progress, the new foods you’ve tried, the healthier and bigger range of food in your day-to-day diet, all goes down the drain. You hate how much effort goes into the most mundane things all because of a phobia. If the texture isn’t the same as it was last time, if you focus too hard on the feel of the food in your mouth, if you taste something you weren’t expecting, the food suddenly becomes nauseating.
This anxiety of being sick tends to linger, even when you think you’re managing well, it likes to make itself known at the worst possible times. Especially at large events with alcohol.
You can feel the whispers of unease all around the walls of Devil May Cry, as if it was built into the framework of the building itself, seeping into the chatty and carefree atmosphere. You feel it. Of course you do. It makes itself known like a mere change of the wind, so subtle, almost unnoticeable, save for the goosebumps it elicits.
“Are you okay?” Nero’s voice pulls you back from your whirlpool of thoughts. You blink, staring at him blankly for half a second before mustering a believable smile and nod.
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine, just a bit tired” you excuse with a light chuckle, waving your hand dismissively. “Y’know how it is, fighting demons really takes it out of ya” you add with a light nudge to his shoulder.
Nero glances down at his shoulder, where you’ve just touched, with furrowed eyebrows. You were acting weird, but he doesn’t mention it, he can’t be bothered to press you about the issue any further. The party was starting to fizzle out by this point, only Lady, Trish, Kyrie, Nero, and Dante remained. Vergil, you assumed, was upstairs in his room, which is to be expected. Dante clears his throat obnoxiously, tapping his beer bottle with a fork.
The sound rings through your ears and you grimace a little at the noise. Dante was obviously piss drunk, and was about to make his fifth speech of the night. After the first one, they all began to sound the same, you could pretty much recite what he was about to say in your head.
“I’d just like to say,” he begins, his words slurred and halted, “congratulations to my dear, dear friends Lady and Trish on their engagement” Dante holds his beer towards them in a cheers. “May they have a wonderful life together and may the sex be as hot as I’m imagining right now.”
There is a response of small groans of disgust and exasperation as everybody, you included, rolls their eyes. Nero leaves your side to begin to coax his uncle down from the table he was standing on and try to get him to bed before he makes another gross comment.
You begin to clean up, despite Kyrie's protests to leave it alone and let Dante deal with it in the morning, you just wait until she leaves with Trish, Lady and Nero to begin cleaning. Sure, it isn’t your mess but you won’t have a hangover in the morning and you really don’t mind. It might help the evergrowing dread pooling in the pit of your stomach.
Dante was upstairs in his room, thanks to the assistance of his nephew, and he was asleep by the sound of it. Or lack thereof. The shop was dead silent, and you quite enjoyed the serenity that came with it.
Less than an hour later, the place was good as new and you were on the couch, doing some journaling while ‘Corpse Bride’ played on the TV, serving as some background noise as you wrote. You were so focused on your own writing you almost, almost, missed the sound of staggering upstairs. You wished you had missed the sound.
Before you can really comprehend where the noise is coming from, you hear the unmistakable sound of coughing. Muffled through the thin walls of Devil May Cry, you’re frozen in place as you listen to the sound of the coughs which quickly turn into gags and retches.
It’s horrible. You can feel your heart racing hard and fast in your chest, pounding so hard against your ribcage you swear it's shaking your whole body. The immediate constriction of your throat strangles a small sob that managed to escape your mouth. You don’t even know when you started crying, as you stared into empty space, your body forcing you to listen to the sounds coming from Dante’s room.
Fuck. You should probably check on him.
You know you should. You will. Right after you figure out how to breathe properly again.
Holy shit, I’m a terrible friend.
That’s the mantra that seems to repeat itself over and over in your head as your heart threatens to pound right out of your ribcage. You sniffle, trying to collect yourself and wiping your tears with your sleeve, taking deep breaths, trying to focus on anything but the sound of gagging and the trembles that wrack your body.
You feel stupid again, sitting with your legs drawn to your chest like a child. A pathetic, useless child. You feel like an awkwardly placed piece of furniture with jagged corners that everybody runs into, unhelpful, annoying and frustrating.
The fact you even feel sorry for yourself makes you feel even more stupid.
“God, this is so pathetic” you murmur to yourself under your breath, your voice shaking as you stand from the couch and force your limbs to carry you up the stairs to Dante’s bedroom. As you approach, Dante’s quiet groans become more apparent and you’re instantly overwhelmed with anxiety and shit ton of guilt. You shove them down until you can be bothered with them later, in private. Still, a thick lump forms in your throat and your sight becomes blurry again.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you slowly open Dante’s bedroom door, knocking softly as you do to alert him of your presence. “Dante” you say gently, poking your head into the room, grimacing at the potent smell of regurgitated food and stomach acid that assaults your nostrils. Though, you try not to make too outwardly of a reaction knowing Dante probably feels shitty enough as is. He groans weakly in response to your presence, body slumped against the frame of his bed staring at the mess on the hardwood floor. You sigh sympathetically, trying to ease some of the tightness in your own chest.
“I’ll clean it,” You tell him quietly, not wanting to disturb his twin across the hall. “You just get changed and go sleep in the guest room, yeah?”
Dante nods a little in response, standing up from the floor, a little unsteadily and you grab his arm without thinking to help him regain his balance. He leans into your touch like a cat and you take precious care of such trust.
Leading him to the guest room once he had changed from the puke-stained ones, you tuck him in. not in a motherly or condescending way, but simply to offer comfort because you know if the positions were swapped that you would want it too.
Quietly closing the bedroom door, you take a deep breath. Despite the lingering anxiety and slight shake in your hands, your concern for your friend and desire to be there for him had overpowered your anxiety, which made you feel a little lighter as you went to begin cleaning the vomit on Dante’s floor.
Only, when you walk into the room, the floor is sparkling, as if there had never been literally anything on it. The hardwood looks brand new. You rub your eyes, starting to feel just a little panicked at the fact you may have just hallucinated the entire thing.
“I brought you some tea” a deep, calm voice suddenly speaks over your spiraling thoughts. The sudden, unexpected noise makes you jolt slightly, especially jumpy after the events of the whole evening. You turn to see Vergil holding a mug of hot tea out to you, his eyes a little wide at your reaction to his mere voice. “I did not mean to startle,” He adds, gathering your expression carefully as his eyes search your face.
You exhale a breath you didn’t even realise you were holding, your shoulders easing of all tension immediately as you take the hot mug from him, sipping it slowly so you don’t burn your tongue. “Did you clean?” You ask, glancing briefly back at Dante’s bedroom.
Vergil nods, taking a sip of his own tea and following your gaze to the room before meeting your eyes once again as you turn back. “Yes, I did. I figured it would ease your distress.” You’re a bit confused, you haven’t told him about your phobia, both embarrassed about the childish nature of it, but also never really having had the chance even if you wanted to. You talk to him over a cup of tea every few nights but conversation never extends to things like deep or irrational fears and anxieties.
“How did you–” You begin, but let the words die on your tongue. Vergil has his ways, he always does. “Nevermind. Thank you.” He nods in response to your gratitude, walking towards the balcony door and you assume that is his way of beckoning you with him, so you follow. There is a two-person porch swing on the balcony, overlooking the horizon. It’s almost five in the morning now, the sun will be rising soon.
Vergil sits on one side and you sit on the other one, keeping a respectful distance out of courtesy and looking out at the landscape before you and taking a deep breath. “The tea is lemon and ginger” He adds after a few beats of comfortable silence, his eyes also set on the space before the both of you. “Ginger helps significantly with nausea, I’ve recognised some people get nauseous when anxious.”
Your eyebrows furrow slightly as his words sink into the fading silence of the city around you for a moment before your expression softens. He even used your favourite mug. That is awfully considerate of him, probably one of the more considerate things anyone has done for you in a while. You want to say something to express your gratitude for such a thoughtful service, but you’ve noticed he is not the best with emotions from other people.
Still, he should know to some degree. “That’s really kind of you, thank you,” You tell him gently, your voice just loud enough to be heard over the soft whistling of the wind as it slips through the gaps of the buildings around you. “It’s delicious” You add after another slow sip, shifting your gaze towards him, though he is still watching the world ahead of him.
“I used a spoonful of honey” He murmurs, his voice soft but not in an overtly gentle way, just quiet as if he were trying to preserve the silence around him. You observe the flutter of his long eyelashes against his skin as he blinks, the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders and chest as he breathes, the wrinkle between his brows where he usually has them drawn together in a scowl or look of displeasure, though in this moment his lips aren’t turned down in a frown or pressed into a line, every feature on his face just exists for the moon and stars to see. And you. But you don’t read into that just yet.
You hum a little in acknowledgement of his words, remembering that you’ve been staring. He notices, but refrains from mentioning it. A comfortable silence settles over you both as you stare off across the land ahead. The sun begins to rise on the horizon and you both watch it on the balcony, holding your empty mug on the seat in the space between your bodies, his hand mimics your action and his pinky finds yours in the small space, resting so delicately on top of yours someone could brush it off as an accident, but you knew it wasn’t, and he knew it too.
· ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
That morning spent with Vergil lingered in your mind that entire day, the sensation of his pinky finger holding yours tingled, longing for your whole hand to be in his, but you didn’t talk the rest of the day. Not in a harsh or ignorant way, but you both respected each other's space and had your own things to do. Maybe you respected each other too much, given you didn’t speak again for almost three whole days, the time flew by so quickly you barely had the chance to glance in his direction before you were busy with something or another.
Finally, just over a week later, your anxiety over eating settled with some time and perseverance and you were snacking on some shortbread creams with a cup of tea while doing some journaling in the living room. It was just past 10pm, and the house was quiet, Dante being fast asleep in his bedroom. He was exhausted from his job the previous day that cut into the early hours of the morning, so of course he was exhausted. You can’t say you didn’t miss spending some time with him in the evenings like you usually do, but there was always something enjoyable about being with yourself and sitting with your thoughts. It’s why you journal.
The room is lit by a few stray lamps around the first floor and the neon red glow of the sign seeping into the floorboards through the front windows. It serves as a perfect lighting to accompany your writing. The soft autumn breeze outside whistles through the spaces between window frames, oozing into the room and gently nipping at your skin until goosebumps raise, causing your teeth to chatter quietly.
The sound of metal sliding makes you look up from the journal in your lap, eyebrows raised slightly at the vision of Vergil closing the windows. Thoughtful? Or was he just cold too? You don’t want to think too much of it, you’ve already run circles in your mind trying to figure out your own feelings for your best friend’s twin brother, let alone try and decipher his.
“What are you eating?” He asks, voice cutting through your thoughts as if he could wield the Yamato with just his words. You blink, momentarily perplexed as you stared at him until he nodded his chin towards the biscuits. “Ohh” You realise, cheeks heating slightly.
“These” You hold up the cookies with a small grin, “These are the best things ever, I found a small little store that shipped to Redgrave. I haven’t had these since I was a kid,” You nudge your head towards the packet, wordlessly telling him to help himself if he wants.
He seems to consider declining for a split second before fluidly reaching down to grab a cookie, carefully seating himself on the couch beside you but leaving a suitable amount of distance, as if he isn’t quite sure whether you want him near or not. You do, but you don’t say that. Watching him from the corner of your eye, you continue to write whatever comes to mind to avoid making him uncomfortable.
Vergil takes a bite out of the biscuit, as any person would, though it seems like everything he does carries a kind of grace to it, like he is just exceeding at the most mundane of activities. It’s encapsulating to watch the man do even the simplest of tasks. You notice as he tastes the treat, his eyebrows raise slightly, eyes narrowing on the cookie while he chews.
“This..” He begins, holding up the biscuit as if to refer to it. “This is quite savourable. I must say, you have rather delightful recommendations when it comes to food.”
His positive feedback makes you smile, glancing up from your journal and towards him, where he is already reaching for another one of the sweet treats. You stifle a soft giggle, completely understanding the desire for another one of the delicious cookies.
Vergil hears your laugh and seems to falter slightly, looking a little like a deer caught in headlights when looking at you with the cookie in hand. “May… I have another?” He asks politely, unlike his twin brother, who would’ve eaten half the packet by now. “Of course,” You smile appreciatively at him, tilting your head slightly as you observe the almost childlike joy in his eyes as he snacks.
Before he can catch you staring, you glance away again, back to the book laid in your lap. The room falls into silence once more as a car passes outside of the building, the headlights shining through the windows and across the walls and floorboards. You almost miss the sound of your name being said over the faint sound of the car engine fading. Were you even meant to hear it?
You hum in response, only a little worried you’ve started hearing things. To your relief, you aren’t hallucinating. “I didn’t mean to…” Vergil begins, though his words fade, like he’s doubting his words, which is rare. “I hope you don’t believe I’ve been ignoring you recently.”
You pause mid pen stroke, your eyebrows shooting up before you can school your expression. “What? No, no! Gods, no!” You blurt out assuringly, louder than you had intended. Vergil looks just as surprised at the sudden spike in volume, a contrast to your usual peaceful conversations with him. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment for the second time that night and you internally are banging your head against the wall.
“I am so sorry,” Your voice drenched in genuine remorse and distress, feeling guilty for single-handedly obliterating whatever quiet moment you were in the midst of sharing. “I promise you, I don’t think you’ve been intentionally distant. I understand you have been busy, and so have I.”
Satisfied, somewhat, with your amendment of the situation, you sink back into the couch, biting the inside of your cheek nervously and exhaling sharply. Vergil, meanwhile, blinks at you curiously before letting out a soft exhale that vaguely resembles a laugh. “I’m inclined to believe you given your passion for the topic,” He smiles, his tone wavering on being teasing. You huff a little, rolling your eyes good-heartedly. “You know what I meant,” You murmur, looking away from him and to the closed journal sitting on the couch’s armrest beside you, reaching out to trace the stickers stuck to the cover absentmindedly.
“I do,” He responds gently, gaze lingering on you momentarily before he stands up from the couch gracefully. “It is getting late, you should sleep. Don’t you have to go dress shopping tomorrow with Kyrie?” Your eyebrows draw together before easing as you remember your plans for the next day. That’s right, dress shopping. You needed an outfit for Lady and Trish’s wedding in a couple weeks. You were Trish’s Maid of Honour, Kyrie was a bridesmaid, and Dante was Lady’s Best Man. Dante wasn’t too keen on dress shopping, though.
You’re mostly surprised Vergil remembered, if anything. Yes, he’s observant, but reminding you is the part that surprises you most. “Yeah, I do. You’re probably right,” You chuckle faintly, yawning at the mention of sleep and covering your mouth as you do so. “I guess I'll see you in the morning, Vergil.” Leaving the couch neater than you found it, you give the older twin a small wave goodnight before disappearing into your bedroom, intentionally leaving the remaining cookies downstairs for him.
· ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Shopping with Kyrie turned out to be more therapeutic than you had intended. She is always such an amazing conversationalist and you end up forgetting about whatever is bothering you lately whenever you hangout with her sweet self. Though she does bring up something that makes your heart stutter in your chest.
“Nero tells me Vergil keeps mentioning you whenever they speak.”
You glance at the copper-haired girl when she speaks, holding two dresses she had handed you minutes earlier to try on when the change rooms were free. “He does?” You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. Sure, you guys chat every now and then and always have good talks when you do, but you didn’t think he would mention you to other people, let alone his son?
Kyrie nods, trying but failing to smother a cheeky grin. “Someone likes you..” she teases, sounding similar to a schoolgirl in her harmless taunting. You huff a little, glancing away from her, unable to meet her gaze knowing you’ll crack and spill every complicated feeling you have for the older Sparda twin. You fix your gaze on the rack of dresses, trying to focus on the task at hand but her eyes bore into the side of your head.
Your resolve crumbles and you turn to her, gripping her shoulders. “Okay! Fine! I want him!” Kyrie’s eyebrows shoot up and a knowing smile immediately graces her lips. “We had a moment a bit ago!” You continue, launching into a passionate ramble about everything that has happened since the last time you saw her.
Kyrie watches you with a mischievous gaze as you fill her in on everything you’ve been feeling, down to the innermost complicated feelings you have in regards to the eldest son of Sparda. Her smirk slowly grows wider the longer you speak and the more flustered you become. By the end of you bearing your soul without a filter, it feels like the room temperature has risen about fifteen degrees hotter than just a moment ago.
Kyrie lets you finish before slowly filling the silence with a slow, taunting laugh. “Nero owes me fifty bucks” She murmurs between chuckles, her words intentionally loud enough for you to hear. “You bet on this?!” You exclaim, a few heads turning in your direction at the high pitch tone you hadn’t intended to reveal.
“No!” Kyrie defends, shoving your shoulder lightly. “I bet that you two would have something between you! He clearly likes you, dumbass.” The thought almost makes you want to scoff. Vergil? Liking you? As if! Yeah, you guys hang out and stuff, but he has no reason to like you. You’re offputting and odd. He’s articulate and handsome, and a hell of a lot more composed than you could ever hope to be.
At Kyrie’s insistence, you just shake your head, chuckling dryly. “Yeah, sure” You mumble flatly, scanning the racks of dresses to avoid her scorching stare. “Just try on your damn dresses” She finally huffs in defeat when you don’t give into her glare. Offering her a shit-eating grin, you close the curtain to the dressing room.
· ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
The day of the wedding was stressful. Somebody wasn’t answering the phone, someone thought they looked too washed out, someone was about to slam their head into a wall because their hair wasn’t working right and you were one whiny call of your name away from jamming the eyeshadow brush into your eye.
“How are you more stressed than me on my wedding day?” Trish asks, noticing your distant stare and the furrow between your brows. Her voice serves as a soothing sound compared to the noise in your head. You just sigh and laugh faintly. “Wouldn’t you rather not stress?”
Trish just shrugs, closing her eyes as you brush the shimmery powder over her eyelids. “You’re right. I’d rather you be stressed. Still..” she trails off, not entirely sure where to leave the sentence. Patting her shoulder softly before closing the eyeshadow palette, “You just focus on getting married. You look beautiful” You say earnestly, smiling as she admires herself in the mirror.
She really does look beautiful, having selected a light-grey dress that only goes just below her ankles. Trish hated all the floor-length gowns, complaining about the restricted movement. Nobody argued, and the dress suits her amazingly, the fabric hugging her body in the most flattering way possible.
The wedding itself was also beautiful in a way you’ve never seen. The ceremony was in a gorgeous cathedral, the same cathedral they fought in during the first few times they met. The sun coming through the stained glass window behind the altar drenches the both of them in dappled colours. You can’t help but tear up a little as they exchange vows, the whole scene just that bit too overwhelming for you not to get emotional at.
The reception was small, smaller than the ceremony, but still nice. It was just at their favourite restaurant, booking it out so the only people there were the attendants of the wedding. Everyone was chatting, laughing, and drinking. Much to your displeasure. But you weren’t going to let your anxiety ruin your friend's wedding party.
You had done your rounds of talking and being social with everyone so you didn’t appear rude, however, at this point of the evening, your social battery has been well and truly drained. So, you find yourself seated at the back of the restaurant with some cake and a glass of Dr. Pepper, your unintentional glare scaring off anyone who approaches.
All except one.
Vergil says nothing as he sits beside you, nursing his own drink. His shoulders sag and he exhales heavily when he sits, clearly as drained as you while he sips at the alcoholic beverage. There’s an unspoken air of understanding between the two of you as the clammer of the room fills the wordless space shared by yourself and the son of Sparda.
“You look..” Vergil speaks up after a long silence, having found some energy to speak to you, though his voice is low and intimate, his words meant for you and only you. “Divine.” Blinking, his compliment makes your breath catch in your throat as you glance down at your dress. Dark blue. Huh. that was not at all intentional.
Heat rises to your face and you find yourself struggling to appear outwardly composed. A cheesy smile pulling at your lips. “Well, you look rather handsome yourself” You respond, turning to look at him but he’s already looking at you.
You’re curious how much he’s had to drink. Enough to keep his composure, but the way he looks at you through partially-lidded eyes and the slow, almost sensual tone of his voice gives away how the alcohol has clearly loosened him up. He lets out a soft exhale, something akin to a chuckle, at your responded compliment. “I’m not drunk” You roll your eyes a little at his words.
“I never said you were” You argue, your gaze never leaving his. Is the room getting smaller? You’re not too sure. “You are looking at me like you don’t believe what I am saying” Vergil states flatly, finally breaking eye contact to sip at his drink, reaching to steal a bite of your half-eaten cake. “Which I could almost ridicule you for. I would not say such things if I did not mean them.”
You want to roll your eyes again, but he has a point. “I know” You murmur, watching his movements, your tired eyes sweeping across his limbs whenever he shifts or moves in the space beside you. “Escaping the small talk?” You ask, changing the subject so as to not embarrass yourself further. Vergil chuckles slowly, the sound low and deep in chest. “Was it that obvious?” Glancing at you to meet your gaze again, you're locked on his grey irises once more, unable to tear away from them.
“Well… I’m doing the same. Takes one to know one” You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear nervously. He hums in agreement, nodding slightly. “Guess so” He mumbles into his glass, finishing the beverage and setting the empty glass on the table. The rest of the room seems so distant in this moment with him, merely a hum of white noise as you stare at the features of his face.
The space between you both also feels very little. Was it always so small? You aren’t quite sure. “Did I mention how good you look?” Vergil whispers, his eyes focused intently on your face, his stare heated and hypnotising. Your mouth moves to form words, but nothing shows for it. Instead, you just nod, eyes never leaving his, the air around you thick with tension that begs to be snapped.
His lips finally meet yours and the space around you seems to sigh in relief with you as your eyes flutter, responding to the sensation of his soft, warm mouth against your own. The faint taste of whiskey lingers on his tongue as your lips part to meet the muscle with a type of need that feels foreign but oh so welcomed. The alcoholic taste didn’t put you off like it normally would, it almost was enjoyable on his tongue. A quiet whine bubbles in his throat as the kiss deepens, your hand sliding into his slicked back silver hair as both his hands come to grasp your waist gently but firmly, offering steady balance as you kiss.
“Nero! You owe me another fifty!” Kyrie’s voice interrupts the heated moment between you and Vergil pulls back from the kiss with the faintest groan of irritation, his brows furrowed as he looks to his side to be met with Kyrie grinning like she had won the lottery while looking back and forth between the two of you. Nero stands beside her, looking the exact opposite of his wife. His eyes wide and openly disgusted. His expression is something similar to a traumatised veteran.
“MY FATHER?!?”