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Vergil finds the glove by accident.
It’s tucked in a drawer that should be empty—beneath old receipts and a gun magazine Dante never reads anymore. Leather, worn thin at the knuckles. Burn-scorched along one seam.
Vergil knows it the instant he touches it.
The one he cut when he refused to grab his brother’s hand.
The glove Dante was wearing the day Vergil fell into hell.
No, the day he chose hell over Dante.
For a long moment, Vergil simply stands there, the shop eerily still around him. The heater clicks. The neon sign hums. Life goes on, indifferent.
He closes the drawer without a sound.
As days pass he notices other things.
How Dante leaves lights on in empty rooms.
How the refrigerator is full of things that don’t require company.
How December arrives and nothing changes.
No decorations. No noise. No plans.
Vergil finally asks one evening, almost idly, as snow ghosts past the windows.
“Do humans not celebrate this season anymore?”
Dante laughs. It is not his usual grin-and-guns laugh, but something thinner. Quick. Like it slipped out before he could stop it.
“Eh. Some do.”
“And you?”
A casual shrug. “Guess I missed a few years. Hard to get back into it.”
Vergil watches him carefully. “You have… friends.”
Dante snorts. “And?”
The answer is strange. Vergil knows it instinctively. Dante talks about people constantly—but never with them. Rarely ever to them outside of a job.
That night, Vergil asks Nero.
They’re standing in the kitchen, Nero calmly cleaning Blue Rose. Vergil chooses his words carefully.
“Does Dante celebrate Christmas with you?”
Nero doesn’t even hesitate.
“No. Never.”
Vergil turns sharply. “Never?”
Nero pauses, finally looking up. “I mean—we’ve tried to get him around. He always jokes his way out of it. Says he’s ‘working’ or ‘doesn’t wanna ruin the vibe.’” A frown. “Guess we stopped asking after he kept turning us down.”
Vergil feels something cold settle in his chest.
They plan it quietly.
No tree. No crowd. No fanfare. Just dinner. Nero and Kyrie cook. Vergil… contributes in the only way he knows how—by being precise.
On Christmas evening, Dante walks into the shop and freezes.
The table is set. Food steaming. Nero grinning like he’s pulled off a heist, Kyrie waving him over.
Vergil stands a little apart, hands folded behind his back.
“What,” Dante says slowly, “did I miss?”
Nero shrugs. “Dinner.”
Dante laughs—automatic, reflexive. “Guys, you didn’t have to—”
“We wanted to,” Vergil says.
That stops him.
Later, when plates are empty and the room is warm in a way the heater alone never quite manages, Vergil sets the box in Dante’s hands.
It’s wrapped badly. Clean lines. No flourish.
Dante opens it—and goes still.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t breathe.
“…You serious?” he murmurs.
“They are yours,” Vergil says. “If you want them.”
Dante turns one over in his hands. Leather smooth. Unscarred. Whole.
He doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect.
Instead, he quietly says, “I kept the old one.”
Vergil nods. “I know.”
That’s when Dante’s voice cracks—just barely.
“…You didn’t have to replace it.”
Vergil meets his eyes. Steady. Certain.
“I am not replacing it,” he says. “I am giving you a new one.”
Dante pulls the gloves on. Flexes his fingers. Swallows.
“…Merry Christmas, huh.”
Vergil inclines his head. “If that is what this is.”
Dante smiles, small, real, and unbearably human.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think it is.”
And for the first time in years, the lights stay on, not because Dante forgot to turn them off, but because there’s someone there to see them.