Work Text:
Vacant. Aimless. Unoccupied by proper thought. Life bore meaning and, yet, you find no consolation within the word.
Meaning meant success, accomplishment, happiness—but, were you even happy? The space you inhabit—did you find yourself happy within the walls that closed you in so rigid? The people you spoke to? Did you find delight within the company, the community around you?
And even now, you continue to haul yourself from your bed, dragging through the days—or had it been months now?—to work, regardless of your tampering health. You manage to dress, and will yourself down the hallway to the main lobby of the Devil May Cry building.
Upon turning the corner to enter the lobby, you yelp when you find the eldest Sparda brother waiting there—expression unreadable, though you could only assume a form of concern?—lips pressing into a firm line, his eyes narrow, brows lowered in a sharp glare. Vergil was undeniably obscure when it came to conveying emotion. His body language did not appear any better, arms lay cross over his chest, body leaning on the wall as if he had been anticipative of your presence.
“You’ve been dejected lately,” he establishes aloud, voice unwavering as he openly discusses your mental health, “and I’d like to know why.”
“How did you know I was awake?” You manage, his gaze remains trained on you; intense, concentrated, you feel timid under his eyes.
“I don’t believe that is what I asked of you,” Vergil continues, “I asked why you’ve been miserable lately.”
“Just tired. Nothing important.” Satisfied with your answer, and mind elsewhere, such as getting through your day with no troubles, you attempt to brush past him only to be met with his eyes once more. It was within one step that his body was in front of yours, his stance unyielding, arms encasing his chest; expression depicting concern more clear.
“It must be important if it’s hindering you from your work.” He presses further. “And if you need to speak to someone, I’m here.”
༄
Life was vacant, aimless—to express that in words was laborious. The unaffected remained clueless, the ones that were bitten by the tempst of depression often drowned seeking aid. Words weren’t enough to describe the feeling—the numbness, the need.
The eyes that met yours were soft, understanding, comforting. When Vergil had invited you to his room that night to discuss your troubles, you hadn’t expected him to grant you such a concealed side of himself.
The man sat beside you, watching as the tears ran down your face. You spoke of your troubles so freely now, and he knew exactly what weighed your conscience so heavy; the consistent battle of your own mind.
His hand shifts to rest on your face, taking in your sorrowed expression. His free hand seeks purchase in yours, encasing it tightly. And the eyes that met his gaze were soft, understanding, comforting.
“If I knew,” his voice was gentle, no longer holding his usual demeanor; the rough tone so familiar now long buried away, “I would have helped you sooner.”
The walls you held so high crashes in that moment. Fully expecting the reaction, his hand reaches around to cup your face, allowing you to focus your weight in his grip, keeping you steady as you break into tears; the hand gripping yours would hold firm, tracing comforting circles into the skin.
“You amaze me everyday,” he spoke, “and I know you’ll continue to do so.”
Vergil Sparda, the half demonic being; the man who swore his humanity away, claiming it reduced him to weakness, to sorrow—but the sorrow, clear on your face, was not of fragility—it was of strength, the courage to fight an endless war against the enemy within you; and he realizes. You were only human, and it was okay to struggle, it was okay to ask for help.
“You’re such a strong individual and I’m impressed you deal with these battles each day.” He concludes rigidly.
The praise is welcomed; the unfamiliar concept of warmth and love, and yet it results in the tears flowing more freely. Your body aches, eyes burning from the inflow of your tears, breath coming out sharp and painful.
God, your chest hurt so bad, it hurt to breathe, but the tears feels so clearing, like a sudden relief compared to the usual feeling of trapping the pain within.
“If you have any thoughts, such as harming yourself, or ending your own life—you can speak to me.” The words pierces your thoughts. “While I don’t understand your inner troubles, I can grant you this… I care about you, and I’m here for you.”
And now it all made sense—and as the half demon stares into your tear flooded eyes, it’s clear that he means it. You were only human. The struggle wasn’t forever, you could breathe, you could struggle, you could cry, you could feel.
Humanity wasn’t a weakness, and your depression wasn’t a battle you couldn’t win, and the fingers encasing yours offers a comfort through the realization amongst your thoughts.
Maybe.
Just maybe you could fight the inner war within your thoughts.
And just maybe, you could be you again.