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One night, Vergilius joins Dante in Mephistopheles.
Dante never spends the night in their own seat. They rotate through every spot accessible, except Charon's. They're no more at ease being in front of the commands for the bus than they're spending off hours in their work seat.
This time, they're in Ishmael's seat. Vergilius sits down in Meursault's spot.
For a while, they share a surprisingly comfortable silence.
"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" Vergilius eventually asks.
Dante shrugs. They don't need that much sleep. They'll probably get a few hours later this night, their head resting against the window. At worse they'll nap during the ride come morning.
"Why are you here and not in your room?" Vergilius asks next.
Dante vaguely turns toward him and points at him.
"Me? I... alright, you got me. You don't have to answer."
Dante looks at Vergilius, pondering. Vergilius averts his gaze, his attention lost somewhere in the void between the rows of seats. Maybe it's the late hour getting at them –both of them– but Dante decides Vergilius can know. They stand; Vergilius' eyes come back to them, questioning. Dante motions at him to get up, and Vergilius obeys, stepping aside so Dante can move.
They take a few steps toward the door at the back of the bus before realizing Vergilius is only looking at them. He looks vaguely... lonely, like that, standing alone in a deserted bus at night, watching someone leave.
Dante beckons him closer, then when he fails to react they backtrack to grab his wrist and gently pull him after them.
Vergilius follows without questioning them. Dante enters the corridor and goes to the door that hosts their room. They grab the handle, brace themself and open the door, gesturing at Vergilius to take a look.
The room is barren. It's as close to an absence as it can be while still having walls. It's a cube. It's empty. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, they're all a dull gray. There's enough light to see, but no source in sight.
There is nothing. No bed, no table, no object, not even a mark on the walls or a stain on the floor. It's smooth, in a way no human could build. It's lifeless.
Vergilius' breath audibly hitches.
Then his hand covers Dante's on the door handle, and together they pull it close.
They go back to the bus in silence. Dante takes Ishmael's seat again. Vergilius, for some reason, goes to Dante's seat. They don't talk. When Dante is woken up by the first rays of sun, Vergilius is nowhere in sight.
The day comes and goes.
Dante is in Ryōshū's seat when Vergilius passes the door, a bundle in his arms. Without a word, he gives it to Dante. It's a blanket and a pillow.
Dante put them down next to them and gets up, bringing Vergilius to their room once again. This time, sound greats them as soon as they open the door.
The room is full of heavy chains coiling and crawling, rustling against each other. Everything is covered in metallic links, and where the end of some chains can be seen the low light glistens on stings, or maybe harpoons.
This is no more livable than the empty version, and Dante closes the door once they know Vergilius has seen it. They go back to the bus alone.
They're grateful for the blanket and pillow, though. It's much more comfortable like this.
It becomes a habit. Vergilius comes to give them what is now their blanket, their pillow, and Dante shows him their room. It's often empty. The chains are regulars, too.
One day, it's filled with mountains of severed members, blood raining from the red ceiling, coating the walls, covering the whole floor.
Another, it's a museum, except the only thing exhibited is rows after rows after rows of heads floating in formol.
Another, it's a junkyard of clocks, piles and piles of them, enough of them ticking still to create an eerie buzz as they're all out of sync.
And then, one day, instead of letting them go back to the bus, Vergilius is the one to grab their wrist, pulling them to the next door.
Inside, the room looks normal. There's a bed, a small desk, a chair. Basic utilities, no decoration, but still. A bedroom. The problem is the sound.
There are voices, unceasing, melting into one another in a discordant cacophony of whispers. Dante listens.
It's your fault! and You should have saved him. and Why didn't you help me? and It hurts, please, please, do something! and–
Vergilius closes the door.
They go back to the bus together, and they end up sharing the blanket, Vergilius slumping against Dante long before Dante falls asleep. They're fine with being Vergilius' pillow, though. He's heavy, but warm. It's anchoring, somehow.
Dante wakes up to Vergilius trying to slip out of the arms they unconsciously put around him during the night. He freezes when he realizes he failed to let Dante sleep, and apologizes. Dante shakes their head. They're fine with that too.
After that, Dante stops showing their room to Vergilius. It's useless at this point. They have an understanding. And sometimes, Vergilius stays with them, falling asleep on their shoulder.
The night becomes a weird bubble of safety and connection. They don't need to speak to feel close. The silence had been lonely, before, but not anymore. It's an ally, now, a blanket of its own.
"I have nightmares, you know," Vergilius tells them one night.
Dante stares. They've spent quite some time watching over Vergilius' sleep by now. They never caught a nightmare.
"When I'm in my room," Vergilius adds.
Dante hears what's left between the lines. I never have any nightmare when I'm with you.
They can work with that.
The next time Vergilius delivers the blanket and goes to turn back to the corridor, Dante grabs his wrist. Vergilius looks at them, waiting. Dante gently pulls him down and he sits next to them, letting Dante cover both of them.
Vergilius leans on them without hesitation and Dante relishes the feeling of his tension melting out of his whole body.
Neither of them tries sleeping in their rooms again.