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Oh, Dante has been sick. Sick with the capital S, in fact: nasty nausea, queasiness that clogs his oesophagus all the way and makes him lightheaded and sweat cold unless he stays nestled in the bed. There came Lady’s reaction when he dared lament it to her: what?! her appalled expression screamed, the kind of appalled that also does not put in any effort to hide the amusement beneath it, don’t tell me your dreadful diet is starting to get to your guts, and such.
Well, first of all, if there’s anything he does digest it’s said ‘dreadful diet’ of his; second, had he caught a parasite or anything, his system would have already provided to slaying it, thank you very much; third, he’s actually been off of his go-to’s! Ever since settling in, Vergil – as if he had been owning the place all of his life, the arrogant, charming asshat – insists on fresh food, fruit and vegs and such, so, if anything, it would be more logical to come to the conclusion it is the latter’s choice of food that upsets his stomach. Damn; been in the human world for a risible fraction of his life and already claims to be an expert in regards to humanly nutrition.
But it’s not about the food; it’s not the greasy pizza or the grotesque amounts of sweets he still manages to gorge down despite the brother’s gastronomic tyranny. It’s not even exactly his stomach that’s the problem. He does not even feel like eating at all, most of the time! It’s…
Top secret.
At least for now. Still too early. Access to the knowledge granted only to those directly concerned, those being the fabled Sparda twins.
But it’s a merry secret.
The baby, that is.
What’s not to love? Bearing a child for his beloved Vergil; a little them, a kid to turn into his favourite target to smother with love – aside from said kid’s dad; and possibly his nephew too. The new addition and Nero, oh, skies, they’re going to build an empire of powerful heirs for themselves and their father. It’s merry, even when the room spins every time Dante gets up from the bed and suddenly the dish soap smells so terrible and shit, I gotta throw up. Curse the demon genes, why didn’t those protect him from that? He doesn’t even remember the last time he’s actually felt so sick. Aside from the last, er, seven weeks or so. These symptoms are really spoiling the experience.
And what else spoils the experience? That he’s denied work, for obvious safety reasons. But when beating up demon ass is not only his job, but also his favourite hobby, it’s not grand. What’s further spoiling the experience? Vergil still works, and for lengthy amounts of time at that. Dante is left in the role of the lonely housewife who could oh so use a gentle touch or a loving word from the partner, but duty calls, and it calls for far too long. In fact, Vergil had announced he wanted to pay Hell a visit, yesterday. What, fitting exclamation, the hell?
On one more amusing hand, he really likes the kind of reality they’ve come to build together. Of course, it’s perfectly normal for his brother-partner to make a quick stop in Hell while he stays at home, pregnant and waiting. On the other, he misses him; terribly. And it’s been not even a day.
To his defence, hormones aren’t of help. They’ve already taken control of his brain, he’s found that out when he felt like crying after precisely half an hour Vergil had been away. He’d thought he could suffer loneliness way better now, or, rather, not suffer it at all, since now he has his beloved little leech snug in his womb all the time, even if they don’t really even move just yet. But, no, he does suffer it: there’s no taste in staying with the bean-sized kid when the father is far. Moreover, hormones do another awful thing: fuel paranoia.
That he won’t return. Good, good job, you’ve just gave up the father of your kid. And your partner. And your twin brother. Let him go with disarming ease, when you should have planted claws in the meat of his arms like a cat and hissed like one at him not to go. So much for the rest of your life with him and your little demon family. Wonder where he is now. Oh, doesn’t matter that he’s the most skilled swordsman you could think of, he’s surely in the jaws of a hungry fiend, no, he won’t cut his way out. Better yet, he’s found something infinitely more interesting than your sloppy ass and-
So, he decides he might as well sleep it off. That’s another thing pregnancy has brought him to, after all: perpetual sleepiness. A little nap in the late morning doesn’t sound bad at all, considering the absence of Vergil by his side in bed that night had proven a challenge for his sleep to come, even with his tiredness, and his current arch-nemesis, morning sickness, has woken him up earlier than he’d have liked. He’s also found out that any place will do: he’d once fallen asleep on bathroom tiles since getting knocked up, because the coldness against his cheek was comforting. Though the chosen bedding is more orthodox, now: he’ll settle on the couch. Curled up like the little thing within him is and with a hand under his shirt, right on his navel, because every time he places it there there’s the delightfully dizzying feeling that there’s a kid there, their very own, and not even nausea or paranoia can bring him down from feeling like he’s a bit at the top of the world.
And anyways, foul thoughts are easy to defeat: the sound of the door jingling open is enough. That wakes him up only physically, his mind is still half in dream-world. So, everything his sense receive goes in that median dimension that charges everything with oneiric charm, one that makes the click of Vergil’s heels resonate beautifully against the floor. It’s stupidly easy, how quickly everything shifts back into equilibrium, how home feels full again, and he feels Vergil’s presence mold his chest and brain like ductile matter back into comfort, then he registers him close, bending down over him with his face above his and his breath caresses his cheek, right before it receives a gentle kiss, it’s divine, and…
…whuzzat smell…?
Thud.
That wasn’t as graceful as the rest had been. Something was dropped right in front of him on the coffee table, and it wasn’t even precisely comforting a sound, it was this kind of vile wet plap, like someone had just dropped a couple of chunks of meat there. It makes him jolt up, slapping him out of the remnants of his sleep. Above him, Vergil blinks like he didn’t expect him to jump up at the action.
“…Forgive me.” Is what he has to say. And it sounds almost amused. “I did not mean to wake you up.”
“Yeah, yeah. No biggie.” He would have wanted to be woken up, anyways, he wouldn't have wanted to miss Vergil’s return. Sitting up, he lazily runs a hand over his face, absently rubs the scruff on his cheeks, brings his eyes to open fully and focus. And, who would have thought, there are a couple of chunks of meat on the coffee table, which is thankfully protected by a cloth spread beneath them. Though they’re an uncanny, dull and purple-ish red, and not precisely what he’d expect anyone to bring of from a butcher shop. He can only blink at the sight he’s woken up to, helplessly gesturing towards the alien object.
“Uh…”
“Demon meat.” Oh. “The reason why I visited Hell in the first place.”
Oh, he’s been out hunting. And it’s delightfully primal: Father provides food, Mother rests at home.
“Since when d’you add demon meat to the menu?”
“Since you’ve conceived, and since you’ve been complaining about your stubborn malaise. I’ve read this might help.” He gestures at the raw meat on the table. “Naturally, it’s a question of demonic genes. A human expecting parent wouldn’t be able to stomach it, but for you, it might prove itself beneficial. And for the child, as well.”
…
“Where the hell did you read that?”
“I have my sources, Dante. Anyways, doesn’t this appetize you?”
It would normally be a ridiculous question, given the unnatural colour of the meat, the fact that it rests raw before him, the blunt smell of blood. But even more ridiculous is the fact that yes, it does appetize him. The way the queasiness annihilates his hunger? Now, he can put that aside, because the human side of his brain goes meek and the devilish one takes over, and it’s one single, very simple thought, an unquestioned instinct, that pulsates: eat.
Eat-nourishment-meat-eat-good.
He doesn’t really remember taking one of the chunks in his hands, but when he blinks, he realises the feeling of the raw meat’s coolness right in his palms and that his teeth are firmly planted in the flesh. It’s a little tough, and he draws his head back to pull the food off of the bone it’s attached to. The last stubborn tendons give up and snap, making his head yank back and he can now fully chew down onto the gathered mouthful, a pretty big one, squeezing some extra blood out, enough to make it trickle down his chin. Carefully, he munches, evaluating. The verdict…
…Good.
‘Taste like pork’, he means to say, but around the big bite it sounds more like eifs ‘ike oak. Vergil has been silent the whole time. When he looks up at him, looking comically innocent with his mouth all bloodied and holding fresh demon meat in hands, he sees that his brother looks taken aback. A little. Looks like something in what he’s doing managed to crack the stoic façade, just a little.
“…Whuht.”
“I thought… you would have waited to cook it.” He speaks. “I only meant to show you.”
“Oh.” A big gulp, and he thoroughly assimilates the nourishment. He smacks his tongue slightly, making the taste of blood reverberate in the cavern of his mouth, and he realises he feels great. The remnants of nausea stubbornly clinging to his throat? Gone. Obliterated by the bolus he’s just swallowed down. Something deep in his stomach settles, and he feels as fresh as a flower field on the sunny morning that follows a night of healthy downpour.
“Uh, I’m sorry. It was kind of on instinct.”
“No, it’s just fine.” Vergil drops down beside him on the couch, and Dante’s still just holding that slab of flesh in his two hands like it’s a perfectly normal snack to have on the couch, but, again: they’ve shaped their own kind of normal. “I do believe it’s more beneficial for you to eat it raw. And you can’t mistrust instinct.”
Funny how raw food is normally denied to pregnant individuals, but of course demons make an exception. Hmm.
What do we think, kid…?
It could be given a little bit more flair. Chop it into a steak tartare; a good carpaccio; oh, maybe some very rare steak?
“Dante…?”
“Wait, wait. We’re thinking.”
“We?”
“Yeah, me an’ the kid. Duh. They’re suggesting me ways to serve this.”
“Ah.” What’s that? An amused smirk? It’s becoming adorably easy to make him smile, or, well, half-smile, mostly, it just needs mentioning of the kid. And Vergil will never admit it, but Dante’s seen him terrifically at ease when around his firstborn.
Some pesky fatherly love. Dante knows the man’s a natural, deep down: he just needs to scrap away the apathetic bark he’s carefully built around him in the years. It sounds a little easier said than done, but he’s well on the way, as far as he can go.
“Are you going to finish that, now?”
“Uh, yeah.” Dante nods. “I feel like I haven’t eaten a proper meal in eons.”
Said ‘proper meal’ is a bunch of raw flesh, but, that’s fine. Vergil gets up, doubling down over the coffee table to gather the rest of the kill. But, before he can leave, Dante calls.
“Vergil.”
His brother, with a toddler-sized chunk of flesh under his arm, stops to turn around. Dante lets his hands, full of his own cut, fall on his lap.
“I missed you.”
Euch. He raises his own sugar levels, and those are not helped by how Vergil’s gaze softens ever so slightly.
“I’ve only been away for less than a day…” He murmurs. Then, he slightly shakes his head. “But I’m here, now. And I’ll be sure not to leave again for a good while.”
Ah, that’s what he needed to hear. He smiles, a little dumbly, with the lower half of his face being a grisly mess. Vergil even bends down to steal a kiss from his lips and it leaves a bloody stain on his mouth like a macabre lipstick stamp.
“Not even when the meat will run out? I think we’ll need plenty, you know.”
Vergil smirks. “Do you think that’s all I brought home? There’s a good heap outside.”
Oh. Well. It’s not like the Devil May Cry is unfamiliar with a bunch of demonic gore resting around its vicinity.
“…Do we have room in the fridge?”
“We’ll make it.”
It’s not bad at all, he thinks as he forcefully pulls another bite of meat right off of the bone. No more spoiling the experience, a grand rest of the first trimester awaits him, one without morning sickness and full of nutrients to make the kid sturdy. Hell, maybe they’ll push themselves out of him without much of a fuss, at this point.
They might as well invite Nero for dinner, he thinks. The course being demonic meat, of course. That would be nice. The four of them. Maybe Kyrie too…?