( He's quiet as he watches his brother β as he listens to the way he agrees to the choice for pizza, yet again, for tonight's meal. He wonders if he merely puts up with it for the sake of him, wanting to play the role of the big brother so eagerly for him as he should have done for the past twentyβ thirty odd years or so. He doesn't fault him for it. He can't. Or else he might as well fault him for wanting to try and take on the role of Nero's father as he should have been throughout his life. He's trying. He knows this. Their past is simply a bitterness inside him that he has to force down at times and dig through the pain to find the sweetness still living there beneath it.
Vergil moves β intends to separate them and return to his book[s] which he matter-of-factly accuses the youngest son of Sparda of being responsible for. Despite the accusation being correct, he still won't admit to it. Instead, he reaches out before the elder son can slip away too far from him β fingers grasping at Vergil's wrist and he stares down to the floor. Quiet. Fingers of his other hand holding to the neck of the bottle resting there against his leg. )
The mind is it's own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
( A line from Vergil's dear Paradise Lost and one which, from how he'd been able to recite it so effortlessly and without the need for second thought, he's read a number of times before. He can relate to in ways he wishes he didn't.
Those fingers there at his brother's wrist grip tightly β a refusal to let him go just yet and he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. )
I read them all. A few times. Can't say they were anything I'd call a favorite of mine. But it was a way to be close to you. To fill the silence of your absence. Sometimes I could hear your voice when I did. Like you were right there. Reading out loud to me. Trying to bore me to death. Sometimes you did.
( Letting fingers slip from Vergil's wrist, they drop down to grip his brother's fingers instead, holding to them still tightly. )
I'm holding you to your word. ( I'm not going anywhere. ) I need you here. I've always needed you.
no subject
Vergil moves β intends to separate them and return to his book[s] which he matter-of-factly accuses the youngest son of Sparda of being responsible for. Despite the accusation being correct, he still won't admit to it. Instead, he reaches out before the elder son can slip away too far from him β fingers grasping at Vergil's wrist and he stares down to the floor. Quiet. Fingers of his other hand holding to the neck of the bottle resting there against his leg. )
The mind is it's own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
( A line from Vergil's dear Paradise Lost and one which, from how he'd been able to recite it so effortlessly and without the need for second thought, he's read a number of times before. He can relate to in ways he wishes he didn't.
Those fingers there at his brother's wrist grip tightly β a refusal to let him go just yet and he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. )
I read them all. A few times. Can't say they were anything I'd call a favorite of mine. But it was a way to be close to you. To fill the silence of your absence. Sometimes I could hear your voice when I did. Like you were right there. Reading out loud to me. Trying to bore me to death. Sometimes you did.
( Letting fingers slip from Vergil's wrist, they drop down to grip his brother's fingers instead, holding to them still tightly. )
I'm holding you to your word. ( I'm not going anywhere. ) I need you here. I've always needed you.