Chapter Text
Fate loved its twisted little ironies—or so Vergil had come to accept, however begrudgingly.
Just a few months ago, the idea of not crossing swords with Dante on sight had seemed impossible. Now, not only were they sharing a roof at Devil May Cry, they were preparing for something even more unthinkable: a family Christmas dinner.
Organized, no less, by a son he hadn’t even known existed. A son whose arm he’d once ripped off in a bid for survival.
Truly, the pinnacle of fate’s tasteless humor.
The invitation itself had been unceremoniously tossed at his head, accompanied by Nero’s gruff warning: ‘I dare you to skip on this.’
And so here Vergil stood—arms crossed, looming in the doorway of Dante’s room—watching as his twin dug through a decade’s worth of clutter in search of a single, clean and presentable shirt.
What began as mildly amusing was rapidly wearing thin on his patience.
“Make haste, Dante. Or we’ll be late.”
From under the bed a mop of white hair emerged.
“You? Worried about being late?” Dante snorted, flinging a crumpled shirt that hadn’t seen daylight in years. It missed its target as a flash of summoned swords pinned the musty relic to the floor. “A week ago, you didn’t even budge on the idea of going.”
Much to Vergil’s irritation, Dante had spent the past two weeks needling him into accepting Nero’s invitation, deploying every juvenile trick and teasing tactic he could think of. Peace and quiet, let alone a decent book, had become forgotten luxuries. In retaliation, Vergil had taken on more jobs, if only to avoid the office and his maddeningly persistent twin.
As if that could stop Dante, the Legendary Devil Hunter. Oh no, he improvised. Adapted. Overcame. He began leaving pesky sticky notes—in atrocious handwriting, mind you—all over the office, and played hide-and-seek with Vergil’s belongings. Anything to secure his attendance.
Vergil suspected the invitation hadn’t even been Nero’s idea, merely something the boy extended under pressure. The handcrafted card looked far too delicate to be penned by Nero’s hand; the words accompanying it sounded equally rehearsed, as if read from a script.
Their father-son relationship barely qualified as cordial. Each meeting bristled with tension, full of stiff interactions and forced civility. No, this reeked of meddling—undoubtedly Dante’s plan, aided by a few co-conspirators, all determined to glue the two of them together.
Naturally, Vergil had no desire to test the limits of that brittle bond, least of all by intruding on Nero’s home. The boy’s distrust of him was practically spelled out in bold letters. So far, Nero had introduced him to Kyrie only a handful of times and had gone out of his way to avoid any introductions to the orphans under their care.
Still, Dante had one last card to play: Lady and Trish. If Vergil refused to attend, he’d be sentenced to spending Christmas in their company. And so, using cold hard logic, Vergil chose the lesser evil. The women’s parting words only sealed his decision: ‘Have fun, Dante. And Vergil? Break a leg. Literally.
“Anything to avoid the harpies you label as friends and business associates,” Vergil remarked.
He surveyed the blast zone that was Dante’s room. It resembled the aftermath of some unnatural disaster decades in the making. Rats taking up residence would hardly be a surprise. Scattered pizza boxes and dirty clothes seemed fused with the sticky floor, bound to it by some unholy covenant. Clusters of beer cans and empty liquor bottles formed shrines on every available surface—the dresser, the nightstand, even the floor was overrun by their chaotic congregations.
Not even the walls had been spared: deep claw marks peeked out from behind tacky posters, pinned up in a half-hearted attempt to hide the damage. As for the bed, calling its mattress a ‘mattress’ was charitable. It slumped in the corner like a wounded animal, stuffing oozing from long, uneven gashes. The curtains—or what was left of them—had been repurposed into makeshift bedding, their once-deep red faded to a dull, sickly rust.
While Vergil had coerced Dante into maintaining the shared office spaces, his twin’s personal quarters continued to fester. The roots of Dante’s self-neglect ran deep—and though Vergil would never admit it, it troubled him. Deeply.
He felt... guilty obligated to help sort this mess.
But that was a battle for another day.
“Stop wasting time,” Vergil snapped.
“StOp wAsTiNg TiMe,” Dante mimicked in a nasally tone, tossing another rag his way. “How about you quit whining in the corner and give me a hand here?”
Vergil clicked his tongue and stalked off, returning with a simple black dress shirt from his own limited wardrobe. He presented it to his twin like a sacrificial lamb, already anticipating its doom, whether by food stains or Dante’s sheer carelessness.
It boldly presumed Dante was capable of putting the shirt on in the first place.
The fabric strained in protest, ill-prepared for Dante’s broader frame. Vergil couldn’t help but flinch at yet another quiet reminder of how he remained marked and diminished by Mundus, corrupted in ways that never fully healed.
Truly a personal hell of his own unmaking.
His wardrobe choices weren’t merely a matter of personal taste: long sleeves, high collars, tightly tailored. Not a button out of place. All to conceal as much of his scarred flesh as possible.
Neat and tidy on the surface.
Controlled.
T͎͂ai̥͚n̰͊͠t̢ͥe͖̠d̎͜ f͐l͖̥̭eͩs̛̚ḫ͎͟ o͛͘f̟̅ h̡̋uͫ̏̀ṃa̪̦n̟͇ͨ d̷̏ě̮̇s̤̄i̖̭g͞ñ̅,̻̈́͌ Ì͝’l̼l cl̶̜͛eͩ͢an̹̝se̽ y̡o͈̪u͋̂ f̙͕ͣo̼͟r̗̒ͩ a̵͕͢ p̋uͥr̲͡pͧosͨ̄͜e div͈̰́in͕̣͜e̝ͬ͗
He felt rotten. Inside and out.
The phantom itch of corruption curled beneath his skin like worms. Those infernal chains binding him in place under the watchful crimson ire. Suffocating.
Until—
“Who’d have thought you’d be into corsets?”
A flippant whistle snapped him back.
Vergil’s fingers trembled where they dug into his arms. He drew a slow breath, re-anchoring himself before meeting Dante’s searching gaze—only briefly.
“It’s a dress shirt, Dante,” he clipped. “It’s meant to fit properly.”
“Yeah? Maybe on your fancy-smancy, skinny-mini—”
Whatever enlightening comment Dante had planned was cut short as Vergil seized the collar of the shirt and, much like a noose, yanked it taut around his neck.
Their eyes locked.
Dante’s breath hitched—but his gaze held steady. There it was, that knowing glint, always aware of more than he let on.
And this? This was just a distraction. A lifeline. A loud-mouthed, ridiculous and timely lifeline. To catch his fall before the abyss swallowed him whole.
Vergil let go, smoothing the collar with extra care. “I am well aware.”
Dante watched him closely a moment longer, then grinned. “Great! Guess that means I get to go shirtless.”
He made a move to peel the shirt off again, but his prison break was halted when Vergil slapped his hands away and buttoned it back up with brisk efficiency.
“No.”
“Well, unless you’ve got a magic trick up your sleeve—”
“Also known as common sense.”
“—you ain’t squeezing me into this deathtrap.”
“Too late.”
Vergil left the top few buttons undone and rolled the sleeves up to Dante’s elbows—closer to his twin’s usual style and comfort. It allowed just enough breathing room to function. With a sigh, he stepped back. “This will have to suffice.”
Dante blinked down at himself, flexing and stretching experimentally. The shirt was snug, but miraculously it fit. No human soul sacrifices required.
With renewed confidence, he struck a pose and wiggled his eyebrows. “What do you say, devilishly handsome or handsomely devilish?”
Vergil hummed, scrutinizing his twin from head to toe. He would never dare attend any event in such a haphazard outfit—those messy old jeans clearly clashed with the top, in Vergil’s not-so-humble opinion of course.
The ensemble grew all the more absurd when Dante plopped a bright red Santa hat atop his head. And no, Vergil was definitely not sulking about being forced to wear a matching one in blue after Dante had whined about all the trouble he’d gone through to obtain it: ‘Do you have any idea how rare these things are in blue?’
And yet, Dante made it work with his typical laid-back buffoon charm.
Vergil gave a tight nod of approval.
“Passable,” he said, already turning to leave. “If you’re not downstairs in the next five minutes, I’ll squeeze you into a waistcoat like mine.”
“Oooh~ Then we’d really look like twins.”
“I sincerely hope not.”