( He doesn't know why he said what he said — doesn't know why they're having this conversation to begin with... except he does. Nero. The kid had been the one to ask about Sparda, about Eva, wanting to know about his family and while it's valid and understandable he'd want to know when he's gone his whole life wondering that, it's still painful for the youngest son of Sparda, despite the nonchalance he carries with him. He imagines, to an extent, it's the same for Vergil, just that their heartaches, while similar, are also so very different from one another. Just like them. Because of Nero's curiosity, it'd been on his mind, though — brought up old feelings and guilt, especially with Vergil very much alive and here with him now.
Very much making his way over to him there on the bed.
When his brother goes and takes the bottle from him, he lets him — eyes him for a moment, only to see it set aside; he never did peg Vergil for much of a drinker. He doesn't know what he expects or what Vergil is likely to say, if anything at all to that. He'd made his smartass comment about their father just moments prior to his own admission to his guilt surrounding their mother and that day, so it would almost be remiss for him to not say something about that. Big brother who respects their father and all.
But there's nothing to come concerning their father or the comment he'd made. Not even a look of disdain there in matching blue eyes when he lifts his gaze up to meet his brother's. Instead, there's something else there in the hardness of them — something that confuses him for a moment... and then he's being pulled into an embrace and held in a way he hasn't been held in a very, very long time.
He sits there, dumbfounded, but. Like the words he'd spilled before regarding that day and his guilt, he finds himself doing something he's not sure why he is and, reaches up to grasp at the back of Vergil's clothing with a hand. Tight. As if scared to let go and have this all be a dream he's dreamt a hundred or so times before.
When the words come, he's left there in silence — left in the tight embrace his brother keeps him within and he sits there with those words, with the reassurance his brother tries to give him. He drops his head — presses his face down to Vergil's shoulder and just... stays like that, hand still holding at his brother's back. Reminiscent of days when they were children and he'd come sidle up to his brother after having a bad dream or the thunder being a bit too loud for him. Hiding beneath the sheets and within his brother's arms, knowing he was safe there. Knowing he wouldn't let anything hurt him.
Except he is hurt — has been hurting for years and Vergil wasn't there to protect him. Wasn't there to reassure him that things would be ok. That he would be ok. It's why he's not. Ok. Because he'd lost his other half that day years ago due to his driving him away with refusing to let him be for a little while. He'd lost him that day. Lost him when they'd found each other again and, like his books, he chose the Underworld over wanting to be with him. Lost him to the demon fuck Mundus who had stripped his brother of everything he ever was and made him a puppet. A puppet he had to put down and, again, had to watch leave him because of his actions.
He can't let him know how much it hurts. Can't let him know the number of nights he'd spend on the floor instead of on the couch. Laying there. Bottle empty. Staring across the room with tears in his eyes and replaying over and over and over again how he should have done things differently. How he should have tried harder or searched for him when he'd fallen into the Underworld.
So when he finally finds it within him to speak, it's soft — pathetic almost, as if he were a child again, tucked in against his big brother beneath the sheets of their bed. )
cw: still mentions of depression and survivor's guilt
Very much making his way over to him there on the bed.
When his brother goes and takes the bottle from him, he lets him — eyes him for a moment, only to see it set aside; he never did peg Vergil for much of a drinker. He doesn't know what he expects or what Vergil is likely to say, if anything at all to that. He'd made his smartass comment about their father just moments prior to his own admission to his guilt surrounding their mother and that day, so it would almost be remiss for him to not say something about that. Big brother who respects their father and all.
But there's nothing to come concerning their father or the comment he'd made. Not even a look of disdain there in matching blue eyes when he lifts his gaze up to meet his brother's. Instead, there's something else there in the hardness of them — something that confuses him for a moment... and then he's being pulled into an embrace and held in a way he hasn't been held in a very, very long time.
He sits there, dumbfounded, but. Like the words he'd spilled before regarding that day and his guilt, he finds himself doing something he's not sure why he is and, reaches up to grasp at the back of Vergil's clothing with a hand. Tight. As if scared to let go and have this all be a dream he's dreamt a hundred or so times before.
When the words come, he's left there in silence — left in the tight embrace his brother keeps him within and he sits there with those words, with the reassurance his brother tries to give him. He drops his head — presses his face down to Vergil's shoulder and just... stays like that, hand still holding at his brother's back. Reminiscent of days when they were children and he'd come sidle up to his brother after having a bad dream or the thunder being a bit too loud for him. Hiding beneath the sheets and within his brother's arms, knowing he was safe there. Knowing he wouldn't let anything hurt him.
Except he is hurt — has been hurting for years and Vergil wasn't there to protect him. Wasn't there to reassure him that things would be ok. That he would be ok. It's why he's not. Ok. Because he'd lost his other half that day years ago due to his driving him away with refusing to let him be for a little while. He'd lost him that day. Lost him when they'd found each other again and, like his books, he chose the Underworld over wanting to be with him. Lost him to the demon fuck Mundus who had stripped his brother of everything he ever was and made him a puppet. A puppet he had to put down and, again, had to watch leave him because of his actions.
He can't let him know how much it hurts. Can't let him know the number of nights he'd spend on the floor instead of on the couch. Laying there. Bottle empty. Staring across the room with tears in his eyes and replaying over and over and over again how he should have done things differently. How he should have tried harder or searched for him when he'd fallen into the Underworld.
So when he finally finds it within him to speak, it's soft — pathetic almost, as if he were a child again, tucked in against his big brother beneath the sheets of their bed. )
I missed you.