Chapter Text
Vergil stands beside his father, firmly watching men and women in black crumple at the sight of his mother's serene corpse quietly resting inside the wooden casket. All around her are white roses the same color as her pallid hands.
“Oh Eva, we will miss you…” The mourners wail a cacophonous song. The accompanying organ shrouds the wake in common grief.
“She was loved.” Sparda states. Clinical as he is, his voice could not hide the raspiness of a man who mourned day and night for his beloved wife behind closed doors.
She left us too soon. Vergil interjects inside his mind, comforting himself despite the many years of Eva’s sickness eroding her body. The doctors told him to prepare for the day since he was eight years old.
Yet his memory stopped there. A big wall of fog as impenetrable as steel stopped Vergil from remembering anything before his eighth birthday.
He asked a good ten thousand times, yet his questions were redirected or ignored. And he would've continued to ask had he not grown older, and noticed that each time, Eva looked so stricken with guilt. So he never asked again. It did not bother him, it did not affect his life, except for a chasm in his soul that could not be filled with wealth or achievements.
But Vergil always dwells, on a rainy day, in the quiet of night, and now amongst the throes for the departed,
What happened?
“Dante…” It is as if a black stain blotted the picturesque scenery of his mother's wake. The man with silver hair just like his stands at the rearmost wall closest to the entrance, his head bowed and quiet, yet his presence disrupts the carefully curated peace. Eva was loved, but a number of attendees came to lick Sparda's boot. Spittle flew out from their putrid mouths.
So he's still alive.
He's a tough one but that's all there is to him.
In his forties yet no wife. No fortune. And no prospects.
Did he come to ask for money from Sparda?
Stifled laughter flits the halls. Dante. It is a name unspoken in his family, an uncle he first heard of from his cousins. Crude, brash, and arrogant. That's how they describe him. But it easily left Vergil's mind until today. Afterall, their lineage spans many families, marriages amongst relatives happen too. Dante may be his uncle, but they are so far removed their only semblance lies in their tuft of silver hair unique to their blood. Vergil notices his father ready to speak, but just as he opens his mouth, Dante walks out of the door.
If Vergil asks, could someone tell him why those eyes hold more grief in them than anyone present?
He finds an opportunity to slip past the masses and into the lobby, where a flash of silver hair turns around a corner. Vergil follows after him.
He knows each convoluted passageway around his house. But it seems Dante knows it too. Like cat and mouse, he strides with a purpose, their distance widening considerably, and Vergil hurries after him. They walk past marble statues and paintings of great grandeur. Dante slips inside a tiny door beneath a painting of apples and pears. Only he knows of it.
By the end of it, Vergil drops to his knees to catch his breath. “Did you know I was following you?” he inhales great lungfuls of evening wind and the syrupy smell of roses. Spend less time on books, more time on training. Even a middle-aged man could leisurely walk amongst the flowers beneath the bright moon.
“You were tripping on your own shadow.” Dante mocks him. It should sting, Vergil is a bit of a sore loser, but a forgotten joy swells inside his heart.
“What is your relationship with my mom?”
“Nothing special.” He bends low enough to smell the roses.
Vergil finds the lack of respect irritating. “It is rude to turn your back while someone is talking.” He is just about to grab his shoulder when Dante pivots around, their faces within mere inches to each other.
He's beautiful… Long eyelashes, gently drooping eyelids, and thin sparkling lips.
Vergil's heart hammers inside his ribcage. His throat dries and his hands turn cold and clammy in a mere fraction of a second.
Is this–
“–love?” Vergil mumbles.
Cicadas. Did he just say it aloud?
Dante just stares at him inquisitively. His ocean blue eyes beckoning Vergil closer, until he finally says,
“You look nothing like Eva.”
Vergil's romantic fantasy shatters.
“Huh.” He must've sounded dumb.
“I said hell no.” Dante throws some distance at them. His face shows obvious discomfort.
He turns around to leave, and Vergil's eyes widen in horror. In fear, he grabs his wrist and blurts out. “Wait, I love you!”
Truthfully, Vergil is hesitant to call this love. But if he does not stop Dante here, then when would their paths align once again?
Dante smacks his hand away. "You're crazy kid!" But as he walks away in a hurry, Vergil sees it. His nape partially hidden by his hair turns red. Maybe he's desperate, it could be the roses. But Vergil chooses to believe that in this rosarium where his mother took her last breath, she would never lie to him.
Find him.
Vergil orders his most loyal subordinates to stalk Dante home. Ethics aside, his father should not hear a word of this. Love at first sight? To a man around two decades older? His own parents had that infernal age gap, but mother is a woman, and Vergil is pressured to sire an heir.
I'm sorry young master. He just disappeared.
The game of cat and mouse continues.
Vergil tries to hire a private detective.
You ask me to tail Dante? The legendary detective? I refuse!
Vergil is riveted with his findings. Apparently, Dante had solved a number of cases that not even the brightest minds could crack. And he had walked out of the clutches of death numerous more times. It was just that he is loose with money, doesn't listen to orders, and is picky with his cases even if he could not provide heating to his agency. His success rate is a hundred, if you ignore the jobs he gave up because of boredom. Thus, he is only consulted when you no longer have a choice.
Dante wears a signature red coat. It reminds Vergil of his mother.
At the end of the day, you only have yourself.
So after classes, he disguises as a common man and boards a bus to the neighboring city two hours away where Dante has been spotted frequently. His last sighting was a month ago, eating ice cream in the kids park and playing alone on the swings.
He questions the stall owner.
He likes strawberry ice creams. But he only buys from my stall when his patron diner is closed.
And what would that be?
Fredi’s Diner.
Fredi did not entertain his questions. So Vergil took off his raven wig amidst their gasps and cast a quivering lip of worry.
Please… I need to find my brother.
His theatrics worked. They said his agency is near 66 Slum Avenue, you’ll know once you see the sign.
Vergil thanks them.
The avenue is sparsely lit at night, and underneath his feet the brick road feels moist. A pale neon signage flickers in and out of existence. Vergil considers asking for directions, but one jerk of a Swiss Knife and Vergil thinks better of it.
A red coat flies into a skinny alleyway.
Finding Dante is laughably easy.
He follows behind him, weeks of training proven effective, and he catches up to Dante in a blink. His long coat is within an arm’s reach, and just as he tries to grab it, Dante swiftly turns around and throws him over his shoulder, slamming him into the pavement. Vergil gasps in pain. He barely registers it, more concerned with the cleanliness until Dante straddles his waist.
“You've been really persistent. Do you want my number that much?” Dante chuckles menacingly above him, but even his laughter sounds pleasant to Vergil's ears.
"Isn't that obvious." Vergil groans when Dante squeezes him with his thighs. Somehow his dick thinks it’s the perfect time to offer salutations, and it rubs against the crack of Dante’s ass.
“Kids these days have no manners, if I was a girl you'd–” Vergil sees him visibly flinch. Processing the information.
Like a cat doused in water, Dante rises to his feet immediately. Cagey, he casually tosses a business card next to Vergil's feet a good distance away. “Well whatever, you need a reward for the effort, and I need some funds for pizza too.”
Vergil realizes. “Wait, you were playing with me weren't you?”
Dante stretches his limbs, a few joints popping in place. “Of course! If I was serious you wouldn't even see me.” He smiles at him.
Oh, Even his smile is beautiful.