A/N: When Vergil goes full-psycho, but still having that strength of heart and unfaltering determination to bring him everywhere he goes, to make him do whatever he does. In short, Vergil as a man.

[Love or Revenge]

When you sleep on the bed beside me, and I lay by my side, propping one elbow against the pillow and watching you in your peaceful slumber, an unspeakable warmth fills my heart. I have only experienced this type of warmth once in my life before, and the memory that accompanies this feeling is rosy and perfect. Very much like what you are.

My perfection.

A perfection that should never be mine, but still somehow managed to wander its way by my side.

I, with complete honesty, don't know what you see in me. I don't know what you want from me or what you think I can give you, but I can only continue to grasp at the straws and do my best to go by what I already know to make you happy, to keep you loving, to keep you mine. Even this streak of possessiveness in me –it would have turned away thousands of women but still you sleep here so vulnerable beside me.

The air around us is silent and still, the night's chill never reaching you because I have made sure to draw the covers over your bare shoulder. You are wearing your nightly camisole, but you don't know how badly I wish to take it off you.

Forgive me, I am a man in biology and in heart. You are the angel of perfection that has waltzed into my life, and the carnal side of me wants to do impure things to you, to feel you against me, to have a sheen of sweat coating your bare white skin as we race towards an end point together in screams. I have endlessly imagined and fantasized, but you do not seem ready and thus I control my own manly urges and watch you at night, hoping and waiting patiently for that one day where you will appear before me in the pure nude perfection that I have dreamt about.

And because you are well asleep by now, I am unafraid of disturbing your peaceful rest when I lean forwards and give you a light kiss on your forehead, watching your face to make sure that I gain no form of reaction.

My dear Dia, you don't know how beautiful you look to me at this very moment that you are asleep, no makeup and no pretty dresses on.

I drift back to the memories of how we spent the night together. Our date had been completely sweet, and I had been living in my own cloud of joy and happiness when it just suddenly came crashing down on my shoulders. Because you asked a question.

"I am worried for you, Vergil." You said after you cleared your palette with a quick sip of the wine that I had carefully selected for your appreciative taste bud. "What if something happens to you when you go out in search of your revenge? I'm always scared when you say you are going out to look for your brother."

I remember that I was surprised at the sudden abrupt change in topic, but it becomes obvious to me that you have been thinking about this for some time already, because there is no wavering in your eyes when I look into your eyes to see nothing but troubled truth.

"I am a son of Sparda, Dia." I had answered you with much careful thinking, hoping that you would understand. It is not that I love you less. It is not that I do not respect your wishes. But I hoped that you would understand that I had been searching for this since my youth, much earlier before I met you. If you are looking for fairy tales where the main character gives up his goal in sacrifice for the girls that he loves, you will find no satisfactory answer within me. "Do not worry for me. I won't do something stupid. You mean much to me right now to even consider putting myself in danger."

Something in your eyes told me that you have already expected this sort of answer from me, because they glittered a little with newfound moisture that I became alarmed that I had never seen before. I know my going out like this every day put you in unease, but I had assumed that it was simply something that you had to get used to; because I am a son of Sparda, and that there was no way in the world that I would ever remain safe.

"Then..." Your voice waivered scarily at that point in time, and my heart skipped a beat thinking that you might start crying because of something that I did, or might have said unknowingly. But you, in all your strength, held it all back and looked back at me with an intensity that I knew many would think of as a glare. "Then will you give it up for me? If you love me, will you give it up so that I won't live the rest of my life being worried about you and wondering if you will ever come back to me?"

Your question tore apart my entire world.

You might have not seen it, or even if you saw my hesitation, you might not have understood the chaos that you released underneath a cold stony face that simply stared back at your faked strength. Your question destroyed me, because in that very few seconds, I was forced to make the biggest decision of my life, and I was pulled completely apart by both equally strong parts of me, fighting and warring until I became a lot less of what I was originally on the inside.

On the outside, you watched as Vergil simply stone in silence, thinking of a way to answer your question.

On the inside, I doubt you realized that the Vergil that you knew was being clawed to death by his own guilt and thoughts; the Vergil that loved you had been climbing a steep hill with bloodied and broken fingers, trying to reach the top and answer you with nothing but love. That Vergil fell to his death.

"Don't worry about me." The answer that I gave you was basically a roundabout way to tell you that the Vergil who loved you had failed and lost the war.

In the rest of tonight's date, you and I were mostly silent and left in our own thoughts. The Vergil who loved you continued to struggle, to come back to life, but once he had lost, there was no chance of a comeback. He simply held on with futility, and made me stay here, beside you, still loving you but still breaking my heart loving you.

And so, with this hand that I caress your cheek once more for the final time, I admire your beautiful, oblivious face for one last time. If the Vergil who loved you is gone, then this Vergil should cease to exist.

Pray that this version of me can shake off enough of his guilt and sins to ever be able to return to his mother and father's embrace, to feel the semblance of the warmth that you give me once more.

I leave the bed with you undisturbed. You don't even stir when I pull on my shirts and pants, collecting my coat off the rack and smoothing down the creases. There is no sound made when I remove Yamato from the umbrella stand, and leave the house for one last time. If I might enter this house one more time, then I shall never walk out alive ever again.

I don't turn back, because turning back will make me remember.

I will remember the Vergil who loved you; the man who failed.

I will remember how much you meant to me. I will remember what my life became after I met you on the bus that day; how you argued with me when I refused to allow you a seat beside me because I was sick and irritated and didn't want anyone near me. But of everyone on the bus who was angry at me that day, only you argued with me head-on. Only you eventually understood that I unconsciously did not want to infect the people around me with the demonic-illness that had taken me temporarily.

But I refuse to remember those times with a gilded light, because that will make me turn back on every single promise that I make from now onwards. You are still snoring silently; and I walk this lonely road, in the chill of the night towards a certain darkness that I will never again come out from.

The further I walk from the house where you are at, the closer I am to my destination. The closer I am to my destination, the stronger I wonder how was I able to pretend that I loved you, that I could have ever possibly given a chance towards giving it up.

My heart speaks loudest.

It breaks at the idea of never being able to love you again.

But it screams that I fulfil what I must; what you do not want me to do.

As I come close to my destination, it becomes impossible to turn back. I have been chasing this for most of my life. It has made me a monster, a person that I myself do not recognise. I don't remember when I first began to lose myself as Vergil Sparda, but down this road, I now know that I am no longer the son that my father and mother will ever recognise. Even if they were still alive, and passed me on the street, I am sure that they would be hard pressed to recognise me because of how much I have changed on the inside. The youthful Vergil of my memories was sweet and warm, but somewhere along the way, I had completely deviated from the path that was set out in front of me.

And when I was hanging on the edge, he came along and pried my fingers off the edge, throwing me straight into the darkness while he walked away, whistling with his hands in his pockets and living his life as if he were the only son of Sparda left on this world.

He never turned around to realize that I had held on to the last thread to the road, broken and bloodied, and am now chasing after him, looking to drag him down into the darkness with me.

We came into this world together.

We have to leave together.

You don't understand it at all, do you, Dia? You have never approved of my thoughts whenever I told you about it.

You thought that we should naturally forgive our siblings for all the wrong-doings that we have done to each other in the past. You, being an only child, had grown up with the jealousy of others with siblings because you think you wanted to enjoy the conveniences and experiences that come with having someone to share everything in your life with.

But you don't understand that when that sibling that you are supposed to share everything with comes along and stabs you in the back; that throws you into the darkness then walk away assuming that you are dead and gone with no guilt in his heart –that is unacceptable.

You don't understand.

He could have simply refused the invitation to search for our father's power together. I concur now that it was a mistake on my part believing that I could resurrect the power of Sparda with a lousy human as my aid. But it was he who charged up the tower to stop me; it was he who chased me back down the tower when I activated the portal. 

It was he who took the ground beneath me when all I wanted was the strength and might to make up for the weaknesses as a half-demon that I was at that time.

He let me fall into the Demon World, Dia. Which brother in the world would ever allow his twin brother to fall into the Demon World, to face down Mundus alone?

He did.

He is the reason why I am so scarred now. He is the reason why I am so twisted now.

That look of fake worry and longing on his face when I fell into the Demon World; I will never forget that.

As how I will never forget the look on his face when he breathes his last breath tonight.

I let myself into his run-down office from the back door and go up the stairs like it is my house.

You don't know how many times I have already done this; come into this place with the intent to kill, but walking out at the last minute because it just simply wasn't right to end everything with you just yet.

But tonight you asked that question, and the Vergil that loved you died.

I open the door, and he is there on the bed with satin sheets beneath him. He lays on his back, his hands spread out on both his sides easily almost as if he is beckoning me to do it. It is almost like he has predicted my arrival tonight, because he is topless with nothing but his amulet resting on his chest. That amulet that I almost died trying to get.

I stand by his bed side and my figure casts a shadow over his face.

He is a light sleeper, because he rouses a little from the sudden shadow.

He opens his eyes, and still I wait.

He blinked blurrily a few times to ascertain who it is standing before him.

He says my name.

His eyes focus on me as he sits up, but his muscles are tense.

He knows what I am here to do.

I talk, and he replied. We talk.

Then when we could talk no longer, we began to fight.

He is strong, Dia, and I know why you have been so worried about me. You had all the rights in the world to worry about me, because he is also a son of Sparda. Of all the demons that I have fought, he is the most vicious, the most strategic and the strongest. Even Mundus has no candle to hold against him.

But I am also a son of Sparda, and I am the son of Sparda who has already died once tonight. Burning up my love for you had given me extra strength, Dia. Even though rationally I know it is unfair, but I pin the blame of the death of my heart towards you on him as well. In every strike and lunge I make, I make it with utter hatred and the desire to kill him with one strong move. He is the source of my hurts and pain.

Like how you have become.

At the end of the red haze, I kneel on the floor because strength has left my legs. My left arm is already rendered useless. The arm that had been touching you is numb, Dia. I can no longer try to feel you with my arm even if I want to anymore.

One eye of mine is blinded from when he punched me straight there with a ring on his middle finger. It had scratched me blind, and with that eye I can no longer admire your beauty. I can no longer see the angel that you are with that eye. Do you lose your perfection from my eyes because I can no longer see through one of them at your beautiful angel wings?

I refuse to imagine an imperfect you. Even if the me that loved you has died, I still refuse to see you in any imperfection. I force a picture in your most beautiful self into my mind as I struggle to my broken legs. The stabs of pain are like nails digging into my feet with every step I take. But one step by one step, I struggle to leave the broken bedroom and go downstairs.

Lugging the can of gasoline up the stairs takes all of my strength, but relief is my partner when I finally tilt it with the cap off.

The smell of it fills my nose, but I force the smell of you in my mind.

I kneel beside the body of red as I wait for the can to empty. The clock ticks.

I hear your voice in my mind.

The gasoline soaks up the dead man's pants and mixes with his blood on the floor around us.

I hear your voice louder. I hear door rattling somewhere in the building. You sound like you are screaming something. But what? What are you saying, Dia? I must have been deafened in the fight as well, because I cannot hear your words.

And since I can no longer touch you, see you or hear you, my life is over.

I click the lighter in my hand on and drop it on the floor.

The fire around me is bright and beautiful –almost like you.

The warmth that it gives me in the cold night; it surprisingly reminds me of you. These fires of Hell around me give me a sense of peace that I never thought I would ever get to feel ever again. If it were ever able that a man can love flames and fire, then I would have fallen in love all over again.

The warmth engulfs me, and bright orange covers me.

Then, above the crackling of flames eating at everything around us, I hear your cries.

You call my name. You are crying. You say you regret asking the questions. You scream that now that I have completed my revenge, I have to return to your side. You cry that you will accept everything that I am now that I am done with what I set out to do.

Up till now you still do not understand, Dia.

Everything that I am has become a past tense.

There is no longer 'am'. There is only 'was'.

Vergil Sparda has died. Vergil Sparda loved you, Dia.

But in the end, Vergil Sparda chose revenge over love.

Perfect Dia, please forgive a foolish Vergil Sparda.