[As Dante ducks his head, Vergil lets the hand at Dante's face drop down to his own lap. The weak joke doesn't provoke a reaction out of Vergil. He doesn't try to reiterate his sentiment or scold Dante for seemingly dismissing it with a display of his usual cavalier attitude even if some part of him does lightly bristle at it because there's a part of him that worries this is where it's proven to be too little, too late. Perhaps no amount of missing Vergil is enough to make up for the passage of time without one another, for all the times Vergil has pushed his brother away in anger and frustration and in his own stubborn convictions. Instead, he just sits in his silence, meeting his brother's watery gaze wishing that were enough to know exactly what is going through his mind.]
[Dante doesn't leave him in the dark for long on that matter. His voice is thin and weak in a way Vergil's never heard before. Not even when Dante bit back tears and repeatedly insisted he wasn't about to cry because he hadn't cried when he got those bumps and scrapes while nearly crushing the bones in Vergil's hand while their mother cleaned up them up had he sounded so small and desperate. It's antithetical to who Dante is, as Vergil knows him to be. The light fist to Vergil's chest does nothing to help, but Vergil supposes it's not meant to do anything more than distract from what they both know to be true: Vergil cannot say anything that will do anything to ease this hurt. Whatever he says will only make it worse. It does not matter if he speaks the truth, if he deflects, or if he outright lies. Even silence shall not bring Dante relief.]
[Beneath Dante's fist, Vergil's heart pounds. It pounds and pounds and pounds so loudly in Vergil's head, it's all he can really hear as he looks at his brother, futilely wishing that he had something he could offer, something that could ease the pain from the ugly reality. But he has nothing. Nothing that can make it better. Vergil's hand flies up from his lap to grip tightly at Dante's fist in a silent desperation as he shakes his head slightly. For a moment, it seems likely that's all there is to be. Silence. But Vergil tries to works his jaw, and his lips part for a moment in an aborted attempt to speak until he finally manages to push something out.]
...I'm sorry, Dante. I—... [His voice cracks, and he stops himself. He swallows thickly, and softly repeats his apology.] I'm so sorry...
[He isn't trying to avoid the question in the end. If Dante were to ask again, he would acquiesce. And he would try, to the best of his ability, to explain his reasons—both what he believed at the time and what he knows to be true now—for not taking Dante's hand that day. But he knows the reasons aren't good enough. Nothing ever could be a good enough reason for why he did what he did. Not in Dante's eyes. Hell, he isn't even certain they're good enough in his own now with the benefit of hindsight being what it is.]
[He wants to cast his gaze aside. The shame and guilt welling up within him sets every nerve-ending in his body to pull on that instinct, but he stays exactly as he is.]
[He owes Dante that much. Well... He owes him more than that. Far, far more than that. But Dante does not deserve cowardice from him right now.]
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[Dante doesn't leave him in the dark for long on that matter. His voice is thin and weak in a way Vergil's never heard before. Not even when Dante bit back tears and repeatedly insisted he wasn't about to cry because he hadn't cried when he got those bumps and scrapes while nearly crushing the bones in Vergil's hand while their mother cleaned up them up had he sounded so small and desperate. It's antithetical to who Dante is, as Vergil knows him to be. The light fist to Vergil's chest does nothing to help, but Vergil supposes it's not meant to do anything more than distract from what they both know to be true: Vergil cannot say anything that will do anything to ease this hurt. Whatever he says will only make it worse. It does not matter if he speaks the truth, if he deflects, or if he outright lies. Even silence shall not bring Dante relief.]
[Beneath Dante's fist, Vergil's heart pounds. It pounds and pounds and pounds so loudly in Vergil's head, it's all he can really hear as he looks at his brother, futilely wishing that he had something he could offer, something that could ease the pain from the ugly reality. But he has nothing. Nothing that can make it better. Vergil's hand flies up from his lap to grip tightly at Dante's fist in a silent desperation as he shakes his head slightly. For a moment, it seems likely that's all there is to be. Silence. But Vergil tries to works his jaw, and his lips part for a moment in an aborted attempt to speak until he finally manages to push something out.]
...I'm sorry, Dante. I—... [His voice cracks, and he stops himself. He swallows thickly, and softly repeats his apology.] I'm so sorry...
[He isn't trying to avoid the question in the end. If Dante were to ask again, he would acquiesce. And he would try, to the best of his ability, to explain his reasons—both what he believed at the time and what he knows to be true now—for not taking Dante's hand that day. But he knows the reasons aren't good enough. Nothing ever could be a good enough reason for why he did what he did. Not in Dante's eyes. Hell, he isn't even certain they're good enough in his own now with the benefit of hindsight being what it is.]
[He wants to cast his gaze aside. The shame and guilt welling up within him sets every nerve-ending in his body to pull on that instinct, but he stays exactly as he is.]
[He owes Dante that much. Well... He owes him more than that. Far, far more than that. But Dante does not deserve cowardice from him right now.]