[It's an incredibly short list of possible suspects for the books that have seemingly magically manifested upon his bed one night. By which it is meant there is really only one feasible suspect of the three people who would even consider gifting Vergil anything in all of Folkmore. Two out of those three only know that Vergil has a fondness for literature, but could not likely narrow it further. Well, perhaps that is a touch unfair. They could go potentially go so far as to correctly answer that Vergil prefers poetry to prose most of the time, but these books are far, far too specific of choices to have been the degree of coincidence that it would take for Nero or Mizu to have gotten them. And Vergil does still, after all, remember his childhood bedroom and its bookshelf. He could always tell in an instant when something was missing from it even when there wasn't an obvious gap or books leaning when they had once been upright and orderly.]
[And he always knew the culprit back then, too.]
[For that night, he leaves them on his nightstand, staring at them in the dark, his gaze tracing the lettering on their spines until he can take it no longer. Vergil flips on the light on the nightstand and plucks the book at the top of the stack. When he wakes in the morning, his thumb lightly holds his place as the book rests on the pillow beside his face, the nightstand light still on.]
[Vergil lets it be entirely for a little while after the books' appearance, the books resting neatly on the overall barren bookshelf when not in use. (Vergil notices occasionally they're not quite as they were left behind, but... Who knows with all the commotion lately? Without many more books to support them, they could have easily been shifted a bit and one of the other two righted them upon seeing them.) He waits for some kind of comment to come though in letting it be. After all, it had been Dante who seemed puzzled by the idea that Vergil wouldn't keep all that many books of his own, and that Vergil was overall generally opposed to the idea. Surely there was some sort of smug I told you so looming on the horizon. There didn't seem to a possibility for Dante to have such restraint. Not when Vergil so clearly liked the gift.]
[But the days stretch on without a single comment, and Vergil never exactly finds a way to work it into a conversation.]
[He looks up from Paradise Lost when he hears the front door to the apartment open. He's curled up on the couch—the pull-out tucked away when not in used—with a mug of tea in one hand resting on the arm, his knees drawn up and propping the book up. Vergil has to admit the couch has been a decent investment thus far compared to reading at the table.]
You're home early. [His feet find the floor once more as he closes the book. It is starting to get a bit later in the day and Vergil should probably start seeing to dinner since it's his turn to cook. Pausing a moment as Dante closes the door behind him, he asks,] Nero isn't with you?
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[And he always knew the culprit back then, too.]
[For that night, he leaves them on his nightstand, staring at them in the dark, his gaze tracing the lettering on their spines until he can take it no longer. Vergil flips on the light on the nightstand and plucks the book at the top of the stack. When he wakes in the morning, his thumb lightly holds his place as the book rests on the pillow beside his face, the nightstand light still on.]
[Vergil lets it be entirely for a little while after the books' appearance, the books resting neatly on the overall barren bookshelf when not in use. (Vergil notices occasionally they're not quite as they were left behind, but... Who knows with all the commotion lately? Without many more books to support them, they could have easily been shifted a bit and one of the other two righted them upon seeing them.) He waits for some kind of comment to come though in letting it be. After all, it had been Dante who seemed puzzled by the idea that Vergil wouldn't keep all that many books of his own, and that Vergil was overall generally opposed to the idea. Surely there was some sort of smug I told you so looming on the horizon. There didn't seem to a possibility for Dante to have such restraint. Not when Vergil so clearly liked the gift.]
[But the days stretch on without a single comment, and Vergil never exactly finds a way to work it into a conversation.]
[He looks up from Paradise Lost when he hears the front door to the apartment open. He's curled up on the couch—the pull-out tucked away when not in used—with a mug of tea in one hand resting on the arm, his knees drawn up and propping the book up. Vergil has to admit the couch has been a decent investment thus far compared to reading at the table.]
You're home early. [His feet find the floor once more as he closes the book. It is starting to get a bit later in the day and Vergil should probably start seeing to dinner since it's his turn to cook. Pausing a moment as Dante closes the door behind him, he asks,] Nero isn't with you?