Vergil insists he’s fine.

Despite being visibly, undeniably, hilariously drunk—he still speaks with that signature flat tone and sharp vocabulary. Slurring? Almost. Denial? Heavy. Dignity? Hanging by a thread.

He tries to walk to his room alone.

You offer to help. He brushes you off. Five steps later, he nearly faceplants into a wall.

Now you’re half-carrying him down the hallway, his arm over your shoulder, your body keeping him from collapsing like a dramatic Victorian lady.

"I said... I do not require assistance," he mutters, though his grip on you tightens.

His steps are wobbly, His cheeks are flushed. And when you finally get him to sit on the edge of the bed... he doesn't let go.

He rests his head on your shoulder, sighs softly—and for a moment, his pride stops putting up a fight.

"You’re warm…" he mumbles. "…Don’t go."