Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationships:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2024-10-24
Completed:
2024-11-14
Words:
2,533
Chapters:
2/2
Comments:
34
Kudos:
424
Bookmarks:
105
Hits:
3,461

Hands

Summary:

Sometimes he speaks under his breath to hear his own voice. His voice. His legs, his arms, his, his, his. Vergil, son of Sparda and Eva, brother of Dante, father of Nero. No armor but his scales and wits.

[Vergil needs to remember he owns himself. He has help.]

Notes:

hey man don't I have an update schedule on other fics that I haven't followed in mOnThS? yeah okay but what if Vergil reclaimed his name with the power of cuddles and liquid veggies

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Hands

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"But suddenly she saw her hands and thought with a clarity as simple as it was dazzling, 'These hands belong to me. These my hands.' Next she felt a knocking at her chest and discovered something else new: her own heartbeat."

Toni Morrison, Beloved

Being whole is…uncomfortably glorious.

Vergil can’t breathe, because he can take a deep breath. He can barely stand, because his legs will hold him. His arms ache because they are uninjured. He wants to shred himself apart just to feel normal.

Sometimes he speaks under his breath to hear his own voice. His voice. His legs, his arms, his, his, his. Vergil Sparda, son of Sparda and Eva, brother of Dante, father of Nero. No armor but his scales and wits.

Vergil, V's voice tells him, firm and quick, We are Vergil. Our name is Vergil.

Vergil heaves more corrupted sludge. Vergil, his name his Vergil, this is his body, this is his voice.

Mother did not leave us, V continues, We are her son. Vergil. She named us Vergil. She did not leave us.

"I would never," Mother whispers at his side. She's petting his hair. He doesn't know how long she's been there. "You're okay, sweetheart. You can breathe. Your lungs belong to you."

Yes. Yes. His. Vergil's.

Crimson joy escapes his lips. Another hand touches his back. He almost thinks it's his, but no. It's the him outside of him.

"Yeah," Dante says, "You're Vergil. That's your name. You're with me, brother. Not goin' anywhere without me."

He kneels in Mother's shape. Vergil wants to scream at his twin for making her leave. Why does she always leave?

No, V snaps, She did not leave us!

"She didn't," Dante replies, "I promise."

We believe him, V says.

"You better."

Vergil breaks the surface. There's nothing but bile in the toilet. He's forgotten to eat again.

Dante cautiously pulls him close, in case the vomiting starts again. Cold sweat meets his neck. Vergil's whispers keep breathing into his shirt: "Vergil, Vergil, Vergil."

Heat boils the corruption away. For once, Vergil lets it, watching his fingers move on Dante's thigh. Thumb, index, middle, ring, pinkie. Other hand. Thumb, index, middle, ring, pinkie. Both at once. Left again. Right again. He is moving them, no one, nothing, else.

His lungs settle in his ribs. His heart chants unhindered. Dante's power is cradling him without locking him in. He is Vergil. Vergil Sparda.

Dante shuts the toilet lid and flushes. "C'mon. Let's brush your teeth. You need to eat something."

Vergil's stomach recoils. No. Not that. Don't make him.

"Vergil," Dante says softly, "You can have anything you want. It's your choice."

Choice. What a strange word.

When Vergil opens his eyes again, he is sitting on the office couch with a green smoothie. His mouth tastes minty, and his toes wiggle in his boots when he asks.

"Hey."

Vergil turns his head.

Nero shifts a bit. He's wearing a white shirt under a sweater Kyrie had made for him: dark blue and full of yarn pills. "You, uh...you with me?"

He smells like exhausted sweat and old thread. He smells like power. He smells like Vergil's son.

"Well, at least you're moving," Nero mutters, "I swear you didn't blink for thirty minutes straight."

Vergil blinks.

"I feel like you're making fun of me."

Blink.

Nero huffs. "You're such an asshole. Drink your smoothie, old man."

Without looking from his boy, Vergil puts the paper straw in his mouth. Dante puts way too much spinach in the mix. The fact that it's perfectly blended speaks to Nero's expertise. Fostering three young children does wonders for eyeballing measurements. If Vergil had stayed, would he have the same ability?

But no. He had jumped. Crashed. And the shadows devoured him slowly, so Mundus could thoroughly enjoy it. No, Vergil did not stay. No one stays.

"Stay with me. Hey."

Claws pinch Vergil's arm. His right arm. The distinction is important, though Vergil can't remember why.

Nero is here. When did he get here?

His son's face pinches. Father's used to do the same when Dante broke a bone. Vergil has broken many of Dante's bones.

"Father."

Yes, Father. So far away, farther than even Vergil was taken. Had Sparda screamed too?

Cold fills Vergil's mouth. He swallows. Perfectly blended. Nero must have made it.

Vergil blinks, and Nero is there.

"Yeah," Nero says, "I'm here." After a beat, he adds, "So are you."

Vergil supposes he is. His hands, his feet, his lungs, his heart, his name.

His smoothie. He takes another sip.

"You're Vergil," Nero whispers, eyes like blades, "You're my father. Got it?"

Vergil nods with his own head. Another sip.

Nero lets out a long breath, then tilts his head and drawls, "You're also squeezing too tight."

Vergil follows his cheeky pointing. Wrapped thrice around Nero's torso is an armored tail. When Vergil asks, its end twitches, confirming it's his. Because of Vergil's tail, Nero is pleasantly warm and protected. Vergil won't hurt him. Not again. Never again.

Ah. That's why. The right arm.

Nero pats the tail with The Arm. "You gonna let go, or...?"

Sip. Twitch. Yes, still Vergil's tail.

"How's he doing?" Dante, not far off. Kitchen?

"He won't let go!" Nero calls.

"Tough luck, kid."

"Gimme a break," Nero grumbles, "I'm not even going anywhere."

He says that, but when has anyone kept that promise?

Mother did not leave us, V reminds him.

Nero's brow furrows. "What was that?"

"Don't worry about it." Dante, closer. "Let 'im have his juice."

Sip. Dante plops on Vergil's other side, throwing his arms along the back of the couch. Sip. Thumb, index, middle, ring, pinkie. Sip. Left, right, left, right, together.

"There's more if you want it," Nero says. "If you let me up, I can get it for you."

"Nope." Dante pops the 'p.' "I'll get it. You enjoy the snuggles."

Nero scowls. "If you call this a snuggle, you need therapy."

"Y'know, it's almost adorable how much you don't want me to know you're enjoying it."

"Shut up, Dante!"

Dante laughs. It rings genuine, a rarity. Vergil turns to watch it bounce in his throat. He focuses his ears to his brother's vocal chords, imagines their humming layers. He likes their buzzing better, for they belong to his kin. Would Dante mind if Vergil sits in his larynx a while?

When Vergil opens his eyes, the buzzing is soothing his forehead with Dante's welcoming chitter. Vergil's hands are empty. Left, right, left, right, together.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Nero asks quietly.

"Of course!" Dante replies, "He'll be kicking your ass soon."

"Kicking my ass?!"

We are safe, V says, soft with shock.

Dante rumbles with the abyss that will never have Vergil again. Vergil watches his hands shake, and the rumbling jumps higher, turns into an earthly avalanche. The air is thin where avalanches happen. But the winter sky is so bright with snow diamonds.

Vergil's hands still. He loosens his tail. A ragged voice says, "More." His voice.

Vergil. Vergil Sparda.

Nero makes a show of stretching. "Guess I'm gettin' it after all."

He will come back.

"Come on, big brother," Dante says, "Come back."

Vergil presses his ear to the buzzing, glowering when it stops. "Speak."

Dante snickers. "You want me to talk? You'll never hear the end of it."

Vergil digs claws into his side. "Speak."

"Okay, but you asked for it." Yes, he did. A choice. "You've been in and out for a couple hours, far as I know. I looked around when Nero was watchin' you, but I couldn't figure out possible triggers. Ugh, you're probably gonna deny the shit out of this. FoOlIsHnEsS, dAnTe. It's not a weakness, y'know. Fuck, Verge, we've been through so much shit."

"I keep telling you," Nero says, "You need therapy."

"And who's your doctor, huh? Yeah, that's what I thought."

Vergil takes his fresh cup. Its straw is bendy and sparkly. He hates it. He watches the smoothie race through it like an upside-down water slide.

Dante digs his chin into his hair. "That's it, drink your juice."

Curled around his cup, Vergil rasps, "I am not a child."

"Sure, bro."

Dante keeps talking nonsense. When Vergil moves his tail, Nero sits still.

"Her name is Dr. Hilaya," Nero says, "She's awesome."

Dante stiffens. "Well, shit."

"I'll ask her for some recommendations."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes. You want me to kick your ass about it?"

Vergil watches his hands flex on his cup. His hands.

"Father, you're up next."

Vergil's tail thwacks him. Foolish child.

"Ah," Dante murmurs, "There he is."

Notes:

Vergil's only win is Nero and Nero also kicked his ass

Chapter 2: Pulleys

Notes:

turns out I wasn't done have another breakdown vergil ay lmao

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

This is highly undignified, a voice says, distinct in its quiet idleness among the cacophony.

Vergil rakes claws up his neck, through his hair, down his face, then snaps back to the beginning. If we reach the spine, another voice cries, we can stop all of this!

This isn’t good, Quiet muses like a lazy summer twilight. We should do something about this.

Up, up, up, slash down, snap back. Up, up, up…

The screaming won’t stop. If Vergil can just make it stop, he can—he can—snap back.

He’s not sure how many forgotten tunes his throat’s retaught him. None of them have worked. A solid, droning note has a pinkie on the cliff face, but it won’t last. It won’t. Up, up, up he goes, and down, and back.

If we can speak, we can breathe. Not Quiet this time, for this voice is urgent. Not V, though. V isn’t where he’s supposed to be, though Vergil doesn’t know precisely where that is. Still, the idea has merit. He waits for his lips to reform, nails skittering at the base of his skull.

“Memory, hither come,” he breathes, breathe, you imbecile, “And t…tune your merry notes—”

An earthquake voice cackles. Merriment is not for you.

Foolishness, another says.

Shameful.

Weak.

Die.

DIE!

Snap back.

Up, up, up.

Slash dow—

His hands are caught. Vergil lets out a sound that makes Quiet repeat, This is highly undignified. When Vergil dares to open his eyes, it adds, In front of Dante as well. We’ll never hear the end of this.

Dante entwines their fingers, spreading blood old and fresh. He presses their foreheads together and curls to mirror Vergil perfectly in a half-fetal mass. Like a heart, Quiet observes. How very symbolic. This is strange. Isn’t this strange?

Dante’s breath puffs on Vergil’s exposed bone and sinew, cauterizing the wounds. With his twitching fingers accosted, Vergil has no choice but to let his flesh close.

His teeth gnash. His legs jerk. He has to move. He has to stop. The conflict is maddening. The voices’ war exacerbates it.

Dante tangles their ankles and starts moving his feet slowly up and down like pulleys. His feet are warm like the rest of him. Vergil’s perpetually cold toes simmer.

Weird, Quiet hums. What are we doing?

Vergil follows its unseen eyes to his legs. They move in counterpoint to Dante’s, creating an odd rustling rasp of linen on denim. The sound fills the echo chamber between Vergil’s ears.

Oh right, Quiet says, we used to do this all the time. Why are we doing it now? This is highly undignified. We should stop.

Vergil doesn’t want to. His gaze has fixed on Dante’s moving lips, but his buzzing being is pinpointed on their pulley system. Following their movement brings to mind old anatomy lessons on leg bones and veins, then conjures thoughts of how his and Dante’s legs were almost one pair because twins start as one being.

Who decided to split first? It had to have been Vergil. Then again, Dante is the restless one, and the loneliest. He’d never consent to occupy the womb alone. Or maybe, Vergil got curious, and Dante eagerly imitated him. It would certainly explain their childhood dynamic.

It occurs to Vergil through the plastic wrap on his senses that Dante is not saying words, perse. Mostly nonsensical “lalala”s that occasionally resemble a melody. Mother would be appalled at the pitch-blindness. She would forgive him, though. She always forgave her boys. Even Vergil.

Vergil’s throat rises. At first, Vergil is convinced he is going to be sick, but it’s only to match Dante, followed becoming follower. Dante steadies into a monotone hum to make it easier. Vergil despises the simplification. He is pathetically grateful for it.

The voices go down, down, down. No slashing. No snapping. No more. No more. Please.

The twins naturally stagger their breathing so their “song” does not cease a moment. Dante smiles without teeth.

Vergil’s voice fades first. Dante carries on a second or two longer. The silence brings its own hum. It creates space for cleansing breaths.

“Can I let go of your hands?” Dante asks.

It’s not, Vergil understands, a bid to be released. It’s a question of trust. Slowly, he nods.

Scrutinizing, Dante releases him. He relaxes when Vergil doesn’t go back to tearing his own skin off, instead making rapid, writhing fists between them. Their pulleys are almost done carrying their load, Vergil thinks. But not yet.

Dante rubs their foreheads. “You want some leaf water?”

Vergil thinks he should give a derisive remark on Dante’s intelligence. He doesn’t. Speaking is an untold burden. On his next heave, he huffs soundlessly.

Dante demonstrates a rare instance where having a twin is useful. He replies as if Vergil has spoken: “Which one of us can use a microwave, huh?”

If Dante boils water in the microwave—

“Relax, Madame, I’ll make it juuuust right. I’ll get the fine China and doilies and little biscuits.”

Vergil traps Dante’s insufferable knee between his own. Dante squeezes back with a goading smirk.

His little brother is still quiet, though. “You want me to open the window?” he asks.

…yes. The dark is. Not good. Not good. Not—

“I gotcha. What kinda leaves you want in your water?”

Vergil relinquishes his brother’s bones and makes his ankles into rolling gears. The most he can muster is another hum. Seems their pulleys did not remove all the weight from his chest.

“Well,” Dante says, pulling the blackout curtains open. Already midday, Quiet grumbles. “Right now we got three kinds. The yellow one, the blue one, and the gray one.”

Yellow: Rooibos, oaky vanilla with almond. Blue: Turmeric ginger with licorice root. Gray: Earl grey with bergamot and a hint of lemon.

Dante plops next to him. “One for yellow, two for blue, three for gray.”

Vergil taps his outstretched hand three times.

“Cool. Anything with it?”

Twice for no.

“Comin’ right up!”

Vergil clamps around his wrist.

For once, Dante’s eyes don’t flash. “What’s up?”

Through the cracks of dirt in his head, Vergil directs his hands to loosen and move. The signs are clumsy at best, but Dante understands. His little brother rolls his eyes before he’s even done.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, wait five minutes.”

He doesn’t.

“I do!”

Vergil repeats the gestures with exaggerated precision.

“Ugh, get off my ass,” Dante grumbles. As he heads for the door, he says, “You’re lucky you’re my brother!”

…perhaps Vergil is.

Notes:

i wrote this in one stream of consciousness but i don't care i'm posting it anyway heheheheheh

Notes:

Vergil's only win is Nero and Nero also kicked his ass