Work Text:
Several months had passed since the twins returned from the Underworld.
The city remained the same. Noisy. Filthy. Broken—and excessively human.
Vergil walked a few steps behind them.
—Always behind, he recalled bitterly.—
Dante and Nero moved down the corridor of the abandoned building as if they were strolling through a bar instead of a freshly purged demon nest. Laughter. Taunts. Insults that, in any other context, would have ended in blows.
“I told you that one was mine, old man,” Nero growled, wiping blood off his Devil Breaker with the back of his hand.
“Yours?” Dante barked out a laugh. “If it weren’t for me, that thing would’ve taken your head off. Again.”
“Liar! I had it under control!”
“Sure, kid. And I’m a magazine model.”
Vergil watched them in silence.
Same defiant tone.
Same crooked grin.
Same arrogant glint when they provoked an enemy before finishing it.
Same audacity.
The irritation—subtle but constant—slid once more beneath his skin.
It wasn’t new. It had begun days ago. A week ago.
In an utterly ridiculous place.
A supermarket.
----
The three of them had gone together.
A questionable decision from the start.
Dante pushed the cart like it was a race car. Nero argued about prices. Vergil simply endured the experience while examining the tea boxes and the label of the one he had selected.
That was when his demonic hearing—ever vigilant—caught the whisper.
Two women in the line behind them.
“They’re twin brothers, right?”
“Yeah… though the younger one could be someone’s son.”
“The guy in red’s, definitely. They look way too alike.”
“Yeah… they’ve got the same smile…”
Vergil did not move a single muscle.
But he heard every word.
Every comparison.
Every theory spoken lightly.
Dante and Nero noticed nothing. They were still arguing over which brand of frozen pizza was superior.
Vergil, however, began to observe.
To compare.
To measure.
The relaxed posture.
The loud humor.
The swagger.
The unnecessary bravado in the face of danger.
Dante and Nero.
They looked cut from the same cloth.
The women’s conclusion echoed more than it should have.
He’s definitely the red one’s son.
Vergil did not feel jealousy.
He felt offended.
----
The following days were unbearable.
Not because of the missions.
Not because of the demons.
Because of the constant silent evaluation his mind insisted on performing; his demon prowled like a caged lion inside his skull.
He watched Nero lean with that elegant tilt—almost like an invitation to dance—wearing a challenging smile.
Exactly like Dante.
How he taunted enemies.
How he answered with sarcasm.
How he laughed.
Vergil told himself it was absurd.
That genetics did not function as a superficial copy.
That demonic blood did not manifest in loud jokes.
And yet…
Every similarity was a splinter.
During the three months in the Underworld, Dante had told him things. Many things. Too many.
He spoke of Nero when he was younger, in Fortuna.
Of his temper.
Of his stubbornness.
Of how he protected those he loved.
Of his fury when he believed he had failed.
Vergil had listened then without reaction.
Now those stories carried weight.
And he understood something uncomfortable:
He knew his son through Dante.
Not through his own experience.
----
On the last day of that week, Morrison called.
A new contract. Good pay. Clearing out a nest that had settled in an industrial complex.
Shop maintenance secured for weeks.
Vergil remembered with involuntary precision the impeccable state of the place when they returned from the Underworld—nothing like what he had seen through V’s memories.
Electric bill paid.
Heating working.
Fridge stocked.
Dust nonexistent.
Courtesy of Nero.
“If I’m going to use the van with Nico, at least the main office has to look presentable,” he had said, red to the tips of his ears, scratching the back of his neck.
A poor excuse.
But an honest one.
Vergil had known it then.
----
The argument—voices rising louder and louder—pulled Vergil back to the present.
“I killed it!” Nero pointed at the demon’s corpse with his sword.
“False. My bullet hit first.”
“That doesn’t count!”
“Everything counts, kid.”
Vergil walked behind them, wrapped in his own silence.
Until both of them turned at the same time.
Exactly at the same time.
“Who killed it first?” they asked in unison.
Vergil looked at them.
The decision was absurd. Childish.
But the expectation in their faces was not.
He chose the most logical answer.
“The final blow was Nero’s.”
Dante opened his mouth in exaggerated outrage.
“Betrayal!”
Nero smiled, satisfied.
“In your face, old man!”
And then it happened.
Both of them stopped arguing.
Both of them looked at him.
Too closely.
“…You okay?” Nero asked, frowning.
“You’re acting weird,” Dante added.
Vergil felt a stab of irritation.
Damn them.
Damn them and their absurd ability to notice what he tried to conceal.
“Nothing is wrong.”
“Uh-huh,” Dante said, clearly unconvinced. “Verg, I’ve seen you devour a single book in hours since we were kids, and this week you haven’t touched one.”
Nero stepped closer.
“For days you’ve been… I don’t know. Quieter than usual.”
Quieter than usual.
That was saying something.
Vergil looked at them both.
Compared them once more.
Same easy grin.
Same protective instinct disguised as arrogance.
And then he understood something his pride had been blocking.
They were not the same.
Dante laughed to hide pain.
Nero laughed because he still believed the world could improve.
Dante provoked for amusement.
Nero provoked to prove he would never again be the insecure boy from Fortuna.
Dante had spent decades surviving.
Nero was only beginning to choose who he wanted to be.
The similarities were superficial.
The essence was different.
Very different.
Vergil finally spoke.
“I heard something a few days ago.”
Both fell silent.
“Two human women suggested that Nero might be Dante’s son.”
Dante blinked.
“…What?”
Nero froze.
Vergil continued, steady.
“I have been… evaluating that possibility.”
The silence grew so thick it was almost comical.
Then Dante burst into laughter.
“You seriously thought that?!”
“What the hell?!” Nero dragged a hand through his hair, scandalized.
Vergil shot them both a glare.
“It was not an illogical hypothesis.”
“Yes, it was!” Nero snapped.
Dante wiped a tear of laughter from his eye.
“Brother, if I had a kid that stubborn, the universe would’ve exploded already.”
Nero looked at Vergil.
The indignation was gone from his expression.
Only something else remained.
Something deeper.
“Did that bother you?”
Vergil took a moment to answer.
But this time, he did not run.
“Yes.”
Not because of the doubt.
Not because of the resemblance.
But because it implied he had been absent long enough for others to fill that space.
Nero held his gaze.
“I’m not like him.”
“Hey,” Dante protested.
Nero continued.
“I can laugh like him. I can insult like him. Maybe I’ve known him longer. But…”
He stepped closer.
“I’m your son.”
Direct. Without hesitation.
Vergil felt something uncomfortable tighten in his chest.
Pride.
Belonging.
Fear.
Dante broke the tension, slinging an arm over Nero’s shoulders.
“Besides, look at us. He’s got your permanent funeral face.”
Nero snorted.
Vergil, to both their surprise, allowed the faintest curve to touch the corner of his lips.
Very slight.
But real.
The irritation faded.
Not because the comparisons disappeared.
But because he understood he did not need to compete with his own brother.
Nero was not a reflection.
He was a continuation.
Imperfect. Loud. Human.
His.
Written across his forehead in permanent marker—just as his younger brother would say.
“Next time,” Vergil said, resuming his stride toward the exit, “I will finish the demon myself.”
Dante grinned.
“That sounds like a challenge.”
Nero revved his sword’s engine with enthusiasm.
“I’ll kick both your asses!”
This time, Vergil walked ahead.
Dante and Nero hurried to flank him on either side, still arguing like children.
And for the first time all week, the silence was no longer a burden.
It was a choice.